on the sunny side

Christmas magic

2011-12-05T16:27:00.001-08:00

I read somewhere that one perk to having children is that it can give you the firstfour years of your life back. You can remember through their eyes just how miraculousand freaking incredible every little detail of life is—from the giant trashtruck that magically appears every Monday, to the way dry leaves swirl in thewind, to simply adding colored lights to a semi-alive tree in the living room.

Everything is wondrous to Violet right now. Every light-covered house or bush is themost beautiful one she has ever seen. Adam and I are frequently called “thebest” simply for doing the things we’ve been doing every day. But because thebedtime story now involves Rudolph, it’s the best one ever.

Today Violet decided it needed to snow. Of course, it’s 60degrees outside and the last time LA ever saw snow was 1962 (I love theinternet). But that didn’t stop her. She stuck on some boots, crunched up somesheets of computer paper and had herself a good, old-fashioned snowball fight.After the snowball fight (which I totally won with my ginormous imaginarysnowball) we made snow angels (or princesses) on the living room rug.

Beckett played along happily, rolling back and forth on thefloor squealing with glee.

Then we sang some Christmas songs and made hot cocoa.

And the best part? Not having to peel them out of soggy,semi-frozen marshmallow-man body suits afterward.

But the kid inside of me is looking forward to having snowin Colorado at Christmas. Even a 30-year-old still finds that magical.

The dentist...da, da, dum

2011-11-15T16:20:00.001-08:00

A couple days ago Violet had a dentist appointment. She was completelythrilled. And I mean the kind of thrilled that is lacking any kind ofsarcastic inflection whatsoever. I told her she would get a new toothbrushafter her appointment. Add to that the memory of the giant toy bin she got topick from at her last checkup and her inner hoarder was completely psyched.

But then, dot, dot, dot, we get her in the chair, Peter Pan playing on thelittle TV overhead and the little stinker refuses to open her mouth. Thedentist finally coaxed her into letting her at least look at her teeth – butdon’t touch them! – and was completely gracious and encouraging to Violet aboutbeing so brave.

And I was like, “Really?” The girl barely had abicuspid tickled. Seriously. I distinctlyremember being practically strapped into a dentist chair as a kid so my teethcould be scraped clean until my whole mouth was throbbing. And there was noblueberry-chocolate-macadamia-nut fluoride crap back then. It was notpleasantly flavored whatsoever. And I was lucky to get a sticker. This kid endsup with a bag full of goodies AND now she knows there is a movie called PeterPan which she is insisting we must have owned at one point before someone stoleit from us. Because there cannot be any other logical reason for not owning every singleDisney movie in existence. I don’t know where she gets these conspiracytheories.

But of course we’re building the cornerstones for futuredentist visits—so she can look back at this one and smile and remember happytimes and stickers and sparkly fairies.

And she really did try to be brave. She didn't run screaming from the office, after all, which based on her temperament lately is quite an achievement. But I’m still a littlebitter about the candy-flavored fluoride.

The mind of an almost-four-year-old

2011-10-28T10:23:00.000-07:00

It takes about seven minutes to go from Violet's preschool to our house. This stream of consciousness took about one-seventh of that.

“Look at that sign, Mama. It's a cat. Wearing a hat. That’s so silly. Isn't that silly, Mama?”

“Who’s in that taxi? Where are they going? Do they want tocome to our house? I think they're going the wrong way.”

“Remember when Paco made that rat dead and we found it inthe backyard? What do rats eat? Why aren’t they purple? Or pink. Pink would be OK too.”

“Why don’t snakes have legs? They’re really slithery but ifthey had legs they could walk. Geckos and chameleons have legs.”

“Beckett’s a boy and I’m a girl and you’re a girl and Daddy’sa boy. That's two boys and two girls.”

“When I was up in heaven with Jesus before you had me inyour tummy, what was I doing up there? Do angels like playing dress up?”

“Why can’t I see the baby inside Alexa's mommy’s tummy? I think thebaby would be happy if it had a window.”

“I’m sleepy, Mama.”

My new baby

2011-10-19T14:34:00.000-07:00

I got an iPhone over the weekend. Initially I was just excitedto get any phone that worked when I needed it to. My last phone took anunexpected dip in the kiddie pool and I’m pretty sure it came out possessed bysomething unholy and annoying.

I didn’t really understand all the hype about iPhones beforethis. I’d seen them before and played with friends’ phones but I guess it’skind of like kids—when you have your own it’s just different somehow. And bydifferent, I mean awesome.

It has this thing called Siri on it—evidently new to thisoperating system. Basically it’s this little woman hiding inside your phonethat can find restaurants, set up reminders, find out random stuff, and fieldquestions from an almost-four-year-old. You just push a button and ask away andSiri does her best to answer you. Today Violet asked her where she lived andSiri replied, “I’m not allowed to tell you that.” Violet was a little miffedbut then went on to tell her about our cat, Paco, and to ask if Siri had anycats. Siri is very patient.

If only she were available for babysitting.

Paco loves having his picture taken with my new iPhone

Somewhat festive fall wreath

2011-10-17T15:32:00.000-07:00

Last week I had this brilliant idea that we were going to make a fall wreath for the door. Violet had been asking for Halloween decorations for weeks. I think she was leaning more toward the ghost/spiders/dead-men-rising-from-the-ground variety, but I’m a wimp when it comes to scary, and also, I really wanted to use spray glitter.

So we walked around the block picking up any leaves that we could find—which mainly just came from the trees in our own front yard because everyone else sucks and doesn’t have trees with removable leaves. But we had a nice little collection of them, even had some bark and a few dead bugs courtesy of Beckett.

I found a plain little wreath at the dollar store and we hot glued the leaves and bark on to it (I left the bugs outside). Then I took it outside and spray painted the crap out of it. I kind of want to cover the world with spray paint glitter.

When Violet saw it after her nap she declared it was, “G-G-Gor-GEOUS!”

(She really likes the Glee spoof from Sesame Street. We watch it pretty much every day.)

Anyway, it’s a happy little wreath for as long as it decides to last and it made our pretty purple door a little more festive—without having to resort to severed heads and skulls and stuff like that.

Weather notes

2011-10-14T21:08:00.000-07:00

It's been hot here this week. Way too hot for October. It just makes me grumpy. So does sleep deprivation. And since a certain nineteen-month-old has decided 5am is a great hour to greet the day, I'm double-grumpy lately.

Some friends invited us over for a backyard pool playdate a couple days ago, which was refreshing. Especially since all the kids decided the water was more fun when it was being splashed on the mamas.

I guess my inner midwesterner just won't give up the idea that October = chilly. Even Violet seems to be perplexed by my desire for cable-knit. Just today I wrapped a cozy scarf around my neck when it suddenly became foggy and delicious outside and Violet was all, "Why is that scarf so BIG, Mama?"

"To keep me warm, sweetie."

"But it is warm, Mama."

I know, hon. Just let Mama pretend for a moment that the pumpkins on the front porch actually belong there and this cup of coffee isn't burning me alive from the inside out.

Pit stop

2011-10-07T22:33:00.000-07:00

Without fail, every time we go on a car trip that lasts morethan three seconds, Violet has to go potty. It doesn’t matter if she went rightbefore we left or if I refused to let her drink anything all morning (which I have never done)she always has to go.

And every time I mention this to Adam he suggests, being theking of logic that he is, that I put the little pink training potty in the backof the van for bathroom-related emergencies. And I’ve thought about it, butthat little pink potty is out in the storage shed and there are spiders outthere. Big ones.

So of course today on our way to the zoo just as we entereda stretch of the 405 that has no exits Violet announced from the back seat thatshe needed to go potty. NOW!

I promised that we would find a bathroom soon but in themeantime, look at those pretty clouds—aren’t those the prettiest clouds you’veever seen?

“I’m going to peeeeeeeee!”

“OK, honey, hang on, I’m getting off right now!”

Thankfully, angels built a Mobil station just off the 101 andI managed to maneuver into the smallest parking spot known to man.

Meanwhile, back on the ranch, Beckett had fallen asleep in the backseat.Quick back story: he woke up at 5am this morning.Five. Eh. Em. And was grumpier than a one-eyed cat. And we were going to thezoo for the afternoon where he would need to sort of behave for at least twosolid hours. So I was a bit put off at the thought of waking him up to lug himinto a plague-infested gas station bathroom.

But those angels had foresight and believe it or not, thatbathroom was located right next to the parking spot. I mean, I could have spit and hitthe toilet. Well, no, I probably would have just slobbered on myself, buteither way, the bathroom was close enough to the car that I felt somewhat safeleaving him inside for a few moments. Don’t judge me. I took all the guns andknives with me.

So I grabbed Violet out of the van and propelled her to thebathroom, all the while she’s clutching her nether-regions and yelling, “It’scoming! It’s coming now!”

Of course there would be a crowd of people milling aboutjust outside the bathroom door. Why wouldn’t there be?

OK, it was only one lady who seemed a little drunk anyway,but I know she was judging me.

But all the stars aligned and Violet made it to the potty intime, Beckett stayed asleep, and we managed to back out of the parking spotwith little or no damage to the car.

All in all, a successful pit stop.

A screaming good time

2011-10-03T16:27:00.000-07:00

Beckett has recently discovered screaming. He’s never reallybeen a very loud kid so it’s kind of a shock to suddenly have a velociraptor inplace of my sweet little boy. I’m sure it’s frustrating trying to communicate thatyou just want the freaking blue cup—but does the alternative have to be screamingat the top of one’s lungs? I mean, at least work up to it. First try a normalvoice, then maybe a timid warrior yell, and if we are still ignoring youcompletely then maybe you have the right to shriek like a banshee. Maybe. If,like, the house is on fire and knives are flying through the air of their ownvolition and Lord Voldemort is coming down the chimney.

Some good friends of ours visited over the weekend and wedecided to take the kids to a farm about an hour away for a fall festival. Everyonehad a blast. We rode ponies, painted pumpkins, went for a hayride, and climbeda mountain made of hay bales. In 90-degree weather. So the ride home was alittle trying to begin with—four very tired, sunburned, hungry kids and a wholehour of fun in the minivan.

Then began the shrieking. My friend’s poor little guy wassleeping peacefully until something pissed Beckett off and he began the “Ma-maaaaaaaa!Ma-maaaaaaa!” that makes me want to drive over a cliff. Thankfully Adam wasdriving and there weren’t many cliffs, so we made it home safely.

But it may be a while before I’m willing to share anenclosed space with that adorable little velociraptor again.

Playing in the train...and not screaming

Looking for the perfect one

Another beginning

2011-09-28T20:59:00.000-07:00

OK, three days in a row of blogging?? I’m not sure I evenknow who I am any more.

Quick recap of the past forty-three-thousand days that Ihaven’t blogged:

Beckett is now walking. (Yay!) (And simultaneously: Oh crap!)

Violet is fluctuating between sweet-as-honey (“You’re mineforever, Mommy”) and psychopathic thirteen-year-old in a three-year-old's body. (“I don’t want to live hereanymore!”) But I love her.

I’m working out again. Regularly. I kind of thought saying it here for anyone to see might freak me out a bit, but it actuallyfeels good. And so do my new tennis shoes. (Are they even called tennis shoesanymore? Because that would be OK—it’s not like I’m actually playing tennis inthem. Maybe athletic shoes? Workout shoes? Curse-the-aerobics-instructor shoes?I don’t know.)

So this blog began wayyyyy back when I was living in Seattleon a (probably) drizzly afternoon while I was working as a copywriter in a tall, shiny office building. I was bored and needed a creative outlet. I’m not so sureabout the creative part through the years, but it’s definitely been some kindof outlet.

And now here I am, two kids and a whole big city later, andI’m trying to get the blog ball rolling again. What I would love is tochronicle whatever it is that I’m doing with this workout thing as well as keeptrack of the ridiculous and delightful things my kids do--and also try tomaintain some sense of individuality as I pour myself into the motherhood thingas best as I can.

I’m not saying I’m going to blog every day, because, let’sface it, I’ve tried that in the past and it hasn’t gone so well. But maybe,just maybe, I can keep up with it on a regular basis and somehow in the processreconnect with that pasty-skinned, well-rested girl who sat in her little cubicledreaming of this very moment in time.

Getting crafty with baby food jar candle holders

2011-09-27T15:12:00.000-07:00

Yesterday Violet and I made a craft using Beckett's old baby food jars. I know, right. First comes the minivan and next thing you know, you're THAT mom. Next thing you know I'll be making homemade cupcakes just for the heck of it. Scary stuff.

So we started with some empty glass baby food jars I've been holding onto for about thirty-seven years. Well, not really, but I'm sure Adam feels like it's been that long. They even made the move with us to our new house, because you just never know. And lo and behold, they did come in handy after all.

Painting on the glue mixture--her favorite part

Letting them dry

Baby food jars, glue and water mixture, strips of tissue paper, a paintbrush, and voila! Instant masterpiece.

I originally envisioned these as candle holders, and they fit the tea light candles perfectly. But I think I might keep one or two for me to store my rings and little bobs and bits in -- we certainly have enough to go around. This was just the first batch.

Finished product

Crazy stupid exercise

2011-09-26T15:18:00.000-07:00

Last Thursday some friends talked me into taking a class atthe YMCA I hadn’t tried before.

“It will be fun!” they said, and gullible as I am, Ibelieved them.

Really my first clue should have been when mymarathon-running, health-food eating friend said, “It’s pretty tough. But it’sfun!”

Always the ‘fun’ thrown in as a way to disguise the ‘tough’—andbecause I tend to see the ‘chocolate’ and not the ‘fat free’ on the label atthe grocery store (and seriously what is the point in fat free chocolate?), I somehow just heard the ‘fun’ part.

It was a circuit training class in which the instructor setsup stations around the room that you cycle through—lifting weights here, jumproping there, holding the plank position until you start seeing stars overthere…

It was exhausting. But somehow I made it through—even survivedthe mid-class “fun” break (again with the fun—these people might be just a tadcrazy) where we did jumping jacks and ran in place and lunged until I hadnothing left to lunge.

It wasn’t pretty. I tend to turn bright red when I feel I’m onthe verge of death, and the sweat was pouring off in buckets. But I did keepmoving until the end, even somehow made my legs propel myself back to the carand home to my house where I ate a handful of chocolate covered almonds as areward for all my hard work.

I literally could barely move the next day, aching in placesI didn’t even know existed on my person. But you know, now those aches have(mostly) gone away and I’m actually looking forward to doing it again. I must be just a little bit crazy too.

A letter for Beckett, a.k.a., an overdue blog post that I'm too lazy to write

2011-07-21T15:07:00.001-07:00

I've been writing these letters to Beckett every month since before he was born. I did it for Violet also until she was two. (I know, right? If only they gave out motherhood badges.) This month's letter is kind of a recap of the past couple of months, and since I don't feel like re-writing basically the same thing for this blog and because I'd kind of like to take a nap (although I'll probably end up on Pottery Barn Kids or some other rubbish), I thought I'd post the letter here.

----------

Dear Beckett,

This letter is wayyyyy late. I know, shocker, right? I had to twist my own arm to write it right now because I am, in fact, sick and the brain synapses aren’t firing like they should. Meaning I very purposefully ordered a hot caramel macchiato this morning when I really wanted a cold one. But the barrista evidently didn’t know that “hot” was code for “cold” so he handed me a steaming coffee. And I almost didn’t reach for it in time, creating this awkward smile exchange where I immediately felt bad for not tipping.

Anyway, a lot has been going on in your life the past month or so—well, in all of our lives, actually, although you aren’t really reading this to hear about your sister finally being able to close the door when she goes to the bathroom without freaking out, are you?

Our first Big Thing that happened recently was a two-week long vacation (I use the word 'vacation' loosely here) to Ohio for Thomas and Lindsay’s wedding. We also managed to squeeze in a weekend of pure aunt/uncle/grandparent/cousin time for you and Violet (i.e., your dad and I went away for the weekend). I think pretty much everyone was a little nervous about keeping you overnight, to be honest. They’re all about the cuddles and the dimples but as soon as the screaming starts everyone is out the door—they’re all a bunch of wimps, really.

But apparently you behaved famously for them—probably even better than you act when you are with us. They even dressed you up and took you to church and fed you spaghetti and ice cream and bathed you and everything.

The wedding was beautiful and your sister did a stellar job as co-flower girl. You got to wear a tie for the first time and you looked so delicious I could have eaten you with a dollop of whipped cream. Originally, your dad and I had planned on only staying at the reception for the main events as we were certain you and your sister would be completely exhausted. But the evening was so beautiful and everyone was having so much fun, we ended up closing the party down. You were passed from Anna to Aunt Deb to Gramma to Dad and around and around until I never knew whose arms I was going to find you in. We danced and played in the fading light until it was time to light sparklers to send the new couple on their way.

I literally can remember when Thomas was only slightly older than you are now, pretending some random clay pots were Winnie the Pooh’s honey jars—and now he’s all grown up and married to this lovely, fantastic person. I am so thankful we were able to be a part of it.

Then we flew back to L.A. to get ready for our next Big Thing—moving. We decided 800 square feet of living space just didn’t cut it anymore and opted to upgrade to a larger home. The move itself actually went pretty well. We hired a moving company which was the most brilliant idea your father has ever had. The weekend before the move your dad and I decided we wanted to paint some of the rooms, something we had never done before—and your dad will probably never volunteer to do again. But it all turned out just fine.

We’re still getting used to the neighborhood, and while our immediate neighbors are very nice, they’re both older couples without any young kids. This is really making me miss our old neighbors and how easy it was to find friends to play with whenever we wanted. I’m sure we’ll make new friends here but it always takes time to do that and I’m already feeling somewhat lonely away from all the usual familiar faces.

You’ve certainly done your part to keep me busy though. The past couple of weeks you seem to have entered this phase where you are constantly demanding something. The only problem is that the only sign you use is “more” so we are constantly asking “more what?” To which you reply, “please”. It’s adorable if a little infuriating for all of us.

You are so special and unique and every day I am reminded how thankful I am that I get to be a part of so many moments with you. So I am trying to slow down and to find joy in all your smiles and your hugs and your shouting “Ma!” as you follow me around the house … all day long.

Love,

Mama

Shopping excursion

2011-03-31T16:16:00.000-07:00

A mommy friend of mine recently admitted on her blog to grocery shopping at Target just for an excuse to look at the clothes and other fun items. At the risk of outing myself, I hereby declare that I do the same thing. (Just stop reading now, honey.) There are many, many stores much, much closer in proximity to my house than Target. But only Target offers row upon row of dollar bins right as you walk in the store—tempting me like one of those tiny airplane liquor bottles might tempt an alcoholic.

Today I found myself again at the “circle and dot store”, as Violet has named it. I was in search of Q-tips, and really, who is willing to buy Q-tips at the grocery store? I mean, come on. I have standards.

Q-tips in hand (or cart), I began strolling aimlessly through the rest of the store. I did actually find a few more things I needed (see: adorable miniature clothespins) before somehow ending up in the clothing section. I was debating on a couple items that aren’t my usual attire (read: not jeans and a t-shirt) so I thought I should probably try them on. Right? Well, no, actually—because apparently shopping carts aren’t allowed in the dressing rooms. Since when exactly? Apparently since about three days ago when I last visited Target and tried on some items. (My life—it very much resembles that Groundhog Day movie sometimes.)

But today the dressing room clerks were adamant: no shopping carts in the dressing rooms.

“Not even in that giant one with a picture of a family pushing a shopping cart on it?”

Nope, not even that one. It had something to do with fire hazards or some nonsense. Normally I wouldn't care, but Beckett was in the cart and there was no way I was setting him loose on the changing room floor. I’d eyed the space under the door and Beckett would have wasted no time in scurrying under there as soon as his little knees touched linoleum. Imagine me, mid-try-on, chasing a cackling baby across Target as I try to finish pulling a flowery dress over my head. Nope. Not going to happen.

So then, probably sensing my distress at having to put back the adorable dress on sale for only $14.95, the clerk offered to hold my baby for me so I could try on the clothes. It was sweet but not really necessary as obviously The Universe was trying to tell me I needed no more $14.95 dresses.

So I just shook my head and left. But don’t worry, a clearance rack miracle occurred and a pretty pink cardigan ended up in my basket at checkout. So of course I had to buy it—it being a miracle and all.

Afternoon stroll

2011-03-10T10:17:00.000-08:00

We got a new wagon last week--one of those giant red plastic (didn’t they used to be metal?) things that has actual seat belts and cup holders and is really only lacking a satellite radio to basically be one giant step up from our car.

Apparently these things don’t come already assembled. Instead it showed up in about four pieces – no big deal, right? Yeah, well, I took one look at the instructions (that really shouldn’t have been called instructions since they lacked actual words) and decided it was not happening. So we waited for Daddy to get home. He managed to get the thing put together in, oh, about three minutes. But it was three minutes too late as it had already gotten dark outside. So we tried to appease them by pulling them back and forth across the living room floor, but you could see "lame" written all over their little faces.

So the next day, the kids piled into the wagon and we headed out for a relaxing little walk. We were exactly three blocks from home when Violet announced, “I have to go POTTY!”

“Really? Are you sure?” I asked, already dreading the bumpy shoulder-socket-wrenching walk back home.

She shot me one of those “you’re-kidding-me-right” looks that I thought they didn’t perfect until teenager-hood. So I immediately turned around and started power walking home, wagon bouncing and careening over bumps behind me.

Adam evidently has a secret PhD in engineering because even with all that bumping and pulling and yelling about still needing to go potty, the wagon stayed intact. At one point, we hit a rather sudden bump and Violet lost hold of her hand-knit scarf. It fluttered out of the wagon, a bright rainbow floating onto the sidewalk behind us.

“My scarf!” she yelled.

“We’ll come back for it!” I yelled back, “We’re almost there!”

I could see our house but the sidewalk was getting bumpier and bumpier, and I began praying there would not be a puddle in the bottom of the new wagon when we got there.

Now her shrieks of “I have to go potty!” were interspersed with “My scarf! My SCARRRRRF!”

But I kept running. I’m sure the people we passed were wondering why that crazy lady decided to go for a jog with a wagon full of kids--but that was definitely the best workout I’ve had in a while, elliptical and all.

Luckily we made it in time and Violet raced inside to do her business. A few minutes later, we were on our merry way again, stopping to retrieve Violet’s scarf on our quiet little walk.

Musical rooms

2011-03-03T14:15:00.000-08:00

A couple weeks ago Adam and I switched the kids’ rooms. Well, mainly Adam did. I did surprisingly little apart from trying on some crazy hats Violet and I found behind her bed.

It’s something we’d been wanting to do for a while since Beckett's room was much larger than Violet's. And since Violet comes with a whole lot more accessories than an almost-one-year-old little boy, we thought she’d make better use of the space. Plus now I don’t have to feel so guilty for telling her to go play in her room. Before she had about two square feet of usable floor space. Now she AND her friends can all actually be in her room at the same time instead of having to take a number.

Beckett doesn’t care anyway since he just wants to be where all the action is, which means I’m often finding both of them spread out in the middle of Violet’s floor, Violet coloring and Beckett chewing on Violet’s shoes. But since Beckett also has smaller furniture (a crib vs. a twin bed), his new room is working out just fine.

The dismantling and reassembling of the beds is the biggest chore—one that Adam is a rock star with now since he has done it, oh, about forty-seven thousand times. We managed to finish putting the crib back together about 30 minutes after bedtime on Sunday. Then discovered the bumper was on backwards. Normally something like that would keep me awake at night but after untying then retying a multitude of spaghetti-noodle-like ties, I’m so over it. It’s still on backward, actually. Beckett seems OK with it.

Little by little we’ve been organizing and reorganizing to get the rooms looking the way we want them to. Beckett’s is pretty much finished—we would like to paint it eventually and add some more wall décor, but we’re still recovering from this last project so that might be a while.

Violet’s room is still a work in progress. She definitely needs to lose the blue border and we should probably find someplace else to stash the stack of storage totes in the corner. But again, she doesn’t seem to mind too much right now. In fact, she still periodically runs around her room, arms outstretched while she yells, “It’s so wonderful in here!” Sometimes I forget just how easy it is to please a three year old.

Will try to get some pics up once I empty the fifteen laundry baskets covering the floors.

Mobility

2011-02-14T14:26:00.000-08:00

In the same week that Beckett turned 11 months old, he also decided to start crawling. This is about five months later than Violet crawled, and I know, I know--you’re not supposed to compare your kids. But I did talk to the pediatrician about it because I’m horrible like that and she assured me that it’s fine, all kids develop at different rates, blah, blah, blah. Really, I just think he’s lazy.

He’s got an older sister who brings him anything he wants, and many things he doesn’t. The only thing he really needs is food and of course we don’t make him work to get that. Although if we did, you could be sure he’d be sitting on the curb with a little “Will work for mashed up bananas” sign scrawled in crayons. Well, actually he’d probably just eat the crayons and forget the whole thing.

But somehow that little button was pushed inside his head that made him decide mobility was a lot more fun that sitting still. Seemingly almost against his will, he has developed this sort of low to the ground scoot-slash-crawl that kind of resembles a giant crazed caterpillar.

But now that he is mobile, there is no going back. He is everywhere. All the time. Most of my days are spent either retrieving him from a room he’s not supposed to be in or retrieving something from his mouth he’s not supposed to eat.

This was a lot easier the first time around when I just had one crazy child to keep up with. There certainly weren’t any random buttons or hair clips or bread bag twisties on the floor when Violet was crawling. Already Beckett has almost choked on Violet’s “stuffses” that she leaves strewn about the living room. We’ve been working with her on putting “chokers” away for a while now, and she really is getting much better. But every once in a while, a stray crayon or doll shoe or puzzle piece will mysteriously appear in the middle of the rug, and Beckett makes a beeline right for it.

The flip side is that now Violet has a real, bona fide playmate in her little brother. Earlier today I caught them playing mama and baby sea turtle as she gently coaxed him into her bedroom, a.k.a., the open sea. He scooted after her gurgling happily, a huge silly grin plastered on his face.

And for just a split second I had a moment of peace and serenity as brother and sister laughed and played together. Until he found the outlet in the wall and I had to run to stop him from electrocuting himself again. But all that running is how I’m justifying eating this delicious bag of Hershey’s Kisses right now.

The plague

2011-01-28T12:05:00.000-08:00

Ever since my mom left (great timing, Mom), the kids have had these nasty viruses that are threatening to set up residence in our house. And since we are already more than filled to capacity, I’ve been trying everything I can think of to get rid of the nasty little buggers. We’ve been treating the symptoms with a veritable pharmacy of over-the-counter medicine, disinfecting everything the kids touch, lick, or look at, and forcing them to sit a bathroom full of steam.

It seems to be working. Both kids woke up with very low grade fevers today and they both seem to be acting a little less pathetic than yesterday. But I might just be forcing a bright outlook on the situation because either I pretend they are getting better or I go crazy at the thought of another week of this.

Violet has been out of school all week with tantrums and whining and begging me to paint her nails every five minutes, and Beckett has been all “hold me, hold me, hold me” all day long, and I just can’t take it anymore! Mama needs some space!

So I called in my favorite babysitters, Dora and Diego, annoying songs and all. They don’t really hold Beckett’s attention very well, but at least Violet is occupied for a beautiful 22 minutes so I can just go to the bathroom without a three-year-old shadow.

And … this little break actually allowed my brain to work enough to formulate plan for making a craft yesterday. Violet and I created a Valentine's Day masterpiece out of heart doilies and red ribbons, which is now twisting merrily above the kitchen table.

And now the sun is shining and it’s beautiful and warm out, so we are taking our germs outside to soak up some much needed vitamins—in the back yard, of course, so we don’t frighten the neighbors away.

Week with Gramma recap

2011-01-24T16:38:00.000-08:00

OK, yeah, so … writing. It has been happening lately but mainly just in my head. What? That doesn’t count? Even if I imagine I’m using a really cool antique typewriter? No? Fine. I probably wouldn’t even begin to guess how to use an antique typewriter anyway.

My mom’s visiting us this week, which is both a nice way to take a little breather from the kids, and a way to do and see a whole heck of a lot more of L.A. than we normally do in a week. It is fun pretending to be a tourist, except when the security guards at the Kodak Theater explain condescendingly that this is where they have that big awards show called The Oscars where all those really famous stars walk down a red carpet. Really? She’s from Ohio not Mars. Although her excitement over the cell towers disguised as trees might suggest otherwise.

We’ve all been a little sick this week so having a mom around to fuss over us and force us to eat soup has been nice. Well, I mean, I am a mom--but I don’t have near the experience she does with colds and coughs and getting mysterious stains out of t-shirts. She also mends things. Like with a needle and thread. Well, she would mend things if I could find my needle and thread. But I lost my sewing kit after I measured Beckett’s head circumference the last time. That’s how into mending I am.

Yesterday we girls hit the beach while the boys hung out watching football. Violet had fun digging in the sand for treasure, screaming, “My diamonds! My diamonds!” over and over whenever she found a shell.

Saturday we took yet another trip to Griffith Park so Vi could get a chance to ride the ponies. It was her reward for successfully wearing big girl panties all week long, and she was beyond excited. She’s three now, which means she can ride the ponies that go just a little too fast for her mother’s comfort levels, i.e., my baby girl has never had so much fun in her life. Every time she went around the track, we waved to her and she yelled back to us, clutching at the saddle with all her might, “Ma-ah-ah-ah-mee! Da-ah-ah-ah-dee! Gra-ah-ah-ah-ma!” (That’s her yelling while bouncing, just to clarify.) Her hair blowing wildly behind her as she simultaneously laughed, squealed, and tried to carry on a conversation with the girl on the pony behind her.

We’re saying goodbye to Gramma tomorrow and already I know Violet is going to have a hard time with it. Beckett would too, I’m sure, if he realized the person responsible for feeding him an entire box of Cheerios in a week was leaving.

It is rough living so far away from family especially when you particularly like your family. The 70-degree weather in January does soften the blow a little, to be honest. But there is nothing that can compare to drooling baby boy grins and little girl squeals when they get one-on-one time with someone who loves to spoil them rotten. Plus, the free babysitting is great too.

A light at the end of the tunnel

2011-01-18T14:19:00.001-08:00

So I’m a little nervous to write about this because I really don’t want to jinx us, but I’m just so excited and I just can’t hide it. Sometime over the weekend that elusive little switch in Violet’s brain went from “I don’t care if I have to sit in my own pee and poop for hours on end” to “I want to go potty NOW!”

It certainly wasn’t because of us that this happened, because if anything we’ve completely backed off even mentioning going potty to her, as was suggested by our pediatrician when I asked her at Violet’s three year checkup if my daughter would still be in Pull-ups in high school. (She assured me that no, this was most likely not going to be the case.)

Then over the weekend we went to visit some friends that used to live down the street and now live wayyyy the heck up in the mountains. It was a fun trip for all of us, even though four kids under four all thrown together can make for an interesting night. But something magical happened in the town of Tehachapi. Violet decided to use the potty, again and again, without my having to coerce her, threaten her (not that I would ever do that of course), or bribe her with pet unicorns. We did, and will continue to as long as it takes, offer her a candy treat for making it to the potty, but she often goes without asking for her reward now. It truly is like a light bulb blinked on inside that stubborn little brain and she finally decided that making her mother turn prematurely grey wasn’t as fun as it used to be.

So yesterday we mainly just hung around the house, close to the bathroom, so she could quickly run there whenever she needed to. Unfortunately this running led to a face plant on the sidewalk and the worst scraped up knees any little three-year-old has ever had to endure. But even in the midst of her injury, she kept up with the potty breaks.

I dropped her off at preschool today in her big girl panties and she sent me on my way with a wave and a kiss, the first time I have left her without many, many tears from both of us.

I know it’s such a simple thing and something that everybody goes through at some point in their lives, but this potty training has been such a huge diaper-wearing elephant lurking in our house for so long that I can’t even describe the relief I feel. She will no doubt have accidents still, probably a lot of them, and that is OK. Just the fact that she wants to try is enough for me. Now if we can just train her to bring us a glass of wine before bed, our parenting will be complete.

A new year

2011-01-17T14:41:00.000-08:00

So January is pretty much nearly over and I haven’t even begun my New Year’s resolution. Not a good starting point.

Surprisingly, this year my resolution is not exercising more, although I’m certainly going to keep working on that one too. But before the never-ending cold struck in this house, I was actually on a pretty good roll with the working out. I’m not going to lie, I mainly do it for the free childcare. I mean, I do always use the equipment when I go. But sometimes I might enjoy a few extra moments in the meditation room too just for the heck of it.

But this year my biggest goal is to write more. Writing used to be like eating or sleeping--I could go without for a little while but pretty soon I was going to feel pretty miserable. But then I had a kid and then I had another kid and somehow the creative juices just stopped flowing as freely as they used to. Or the endless cycle of playing dress up and changing diapers makes any juices that might be there evaporate. OK, enough talk about juices. The point is I used to be passionate about writing—really truly in love with it. So my goal for this year is to rediscover the path that leads back to that passion. And maybe watch a little less HGTV too. Actually, those probably go hand in hand.

What Christmas is all about

2010-11-30T16:21:00.000-08:00

Why my husband calls me Magellan

2010-11-14T22:00:00.000-08:00

It seems like most of my blog posts lately have had a similar structure: the day started out great then (insert excrement-or-natural-disaster-related anecdote here) happened, and things unraveled quickly.

I’d like to say that the following little nugget takes a happy, meandering detour from the usual scenario, but alas, no such luck.

I volunteered to make and deliver a meal to a new mom from my Mom’s Club, as part of the new mom meal delivery program I am currently heading up. It’s a fantastic way to say, “Hi, I know you are surviving on exactly thirty-seven minutes of sleep and are covered in a sticky substance that I can only hope is really paste, since you just hugged me in your delirium, but here, have some pasta and garlic bread. It will help. Promise.”

So I cooked the meal and had everything ready to go when the kids woke up from naps.

Then the kids woke up from naps.

Beckett had had a blowout unlike anything I have ever seen. Violet somehow woke up on the wrong-est side of the bed and was wholeheartedly blaming me for everything from the incorrect juice-to-water ratio in her sippy cup to her missing pink sparkle shoe.

I finally got them loaded up in the car after a rather unfortunate incident with the silverware drawer that left the ceramic handle in shards on the kitchen floor and we headed off to deliver our meal.

I even had my fancy app on my fancy phone that told me exactly where to go.

Only it lied.

I somehow mixed up the numbers in the new mom’s address, so my helpful little phone sent me unknowingly to a house two blocks down the street.

A very nice man answered the door, seemed a little puzzled as I handed him a bag of food, but perked up when I said that this was for Lisa and mumbled something like, “Congratulations on your baby. My kids are in the car and we have to get to the park before it gets completely dark out! Enjoy the garlic bread!”

And the man just nodded and smiled and couldn’t believe what nice people and how did we even know and he would tell Lisa that I stopped by.

And then I drove away.

And about five blocks away from the park, it suddenly hit me. I was the third person to deliver a meal to Lisa. Even if her husband hadn’t known about the meal delivery beforehand, surely he would have noticed when two other random women suddenly showed up with food. Had he been out of town? Did he have that weird short-term memory loss problem? Was he just the best friend impersonating the husband in order to get free garlic bread?

I glanced back at my phone and then at the address and realized what I had done, which was to deliver a bag full of food meant for a mom with a new baby to some random dude living down the street.

So I turned around and went right back to the random dude’s house.

By this time, the sun was setting and we were very obviously heading away from the park, which sent Miss I-Want-to-SWIIING into hysterics in the back seat.

I ran up to the guy’s house, rang the doorbell and waited to reclaim my meaty pasta and garlic bread.

The poor guy was completely gentlemanly about the whole situation and handed the bag back over with a laugh and an obligatory smile at my blaming the whole thing on that damn time change.

And get this. He did have a wife who was expecting a baby any day. And guess what her name was? LISA. I mean, really? What are the odds?

So the food finally made it to the right Lisa and the kids and I finally made it to the park where Violet swung happily in the dark.

And I really hope Lisa and her baby enjoyed that garlic bread.

Might be time for a new hair style

2010-10-25T16:25:00.000-07:00

The other day I went to the grocery store with Violet--a great setting for a fun mother/daughter outing, I know. But I did let her choose the ridiculous cart with the little red car attached to the front just because she wanted it and I decided a pre-football game crammed supermarket wasn't fun enough without knocking over a few canned pumpkin displays.

It wasn't our usual supermarket, which always puts me outside my comfort zone. I really don't like it when my Coffeemate isn't in the spot it's supposed to be.

Plus the bank was closed when it was supposed to be open -- AND the ATM wasn't working. Very suspicious.

But there we were, taking up half the aisle with our shopping cart monstrosity, getting all sorts of hostile looks from our fellow shoppers. But I didn't care, because Violet was steering and laughing and singing and being completely the opposite of the shrieking supermarket monster that usually appears when we enter that world. So whatever, lady with the well-behaved two-year-old sitting meekly in the basket reading a book. I know you probably drugged her with Benadryl before you came.

Anyway, we finally made it to the checkout, me nearly sweating with the exertion of steering that monstrosity around the throngs of autumn-festivity-crazed people (They are not going to run out of pumpkins. Really.) and into the line of the checkout lady who hates the world.

I was trying not to judge her rude behavior because, who knows? Maybe her cat died this morning or she forgot her pills or her DVR deleted all her shows or something (all of which would put me in a foul mood, I'm sure). But there she was, rolling her eyes at Violet and speaking to me in such a condescending tone that I was nearly mute with shock.

And that's when she asked me how long I had been a nanny and when would I be graduating college. So I forgave her and happily steered my giant shopping cart out of there.

Priorities

2010-10-14T16:11:00.001-07:00

Having kids has made me high strung. I really, REALLY hate to admit it because, well, normally I lie and say that I’m not. But I really am.

I never used to be. Before the kids, I was one of those laidback, whatever-floats-your-boat-we’re-all-together-in-a-yellow-submarine personalities. And at times I do miss that person. Because now, I get freaked out over everything. Crayons on the new rug. Spit up on my favorite black t-shirt. My attempt at dinner not turning out edible. NO ONE in my household being able to hear the sound of my voice.

It’s frustrating to be this way—mainly because it’s completely exhausting and I really don’t need any other energy drain on this sleep-deprived body. But also because it’s just so darn pointless. Why do I freak out about the toys being in the wrong bin, lost shoes, or missed bedtimes? What does ranting and raving over dirty dishes in the bathroom really accomplish? (Seriously. There was an empty snack bowl in bathroom. How long were you planning on being in there that you needed a bowl of pretzels to accompany you?)

Maybe it’s just a small way of pretending I’m actually in control around here. Or maybe the act of having babies flips some kind of switch inside us that makes us turn into our mothers.

Either way, I’m determined not to become That Mom. I really do want Violet to wear mismatched clothes and Beckett to eat leaves and for both kids to leave paint and markers and tiaras scattered around our house. Because to me, neat and tidy is boring. Predictable. Like a Nicholas Sparks book.

I want these kids to be able to tell stories. About that time we tried to make a chocolate cake and someone pulled the beaters out of the bowl when they were still spinning and all the batter ended up on us instead of in the cake pan. And about playing in the rain then pulling off all their clothes to squish through the mud. About dressing up the cat in doll clothes and trying to make him pretty with lipstick and nail polish. Traipsing through snow drifts until they look like miniature abominable snowmen. Covering the kitchen table with glue and glitter making ridiculous Christmas ornaments out of Popsicle sticks.

These are my memories—silly, messy, outrageous fun that had nothing to do with those Pottery-Barn-perfect living rooms.

And so I have to remind myself when Violet wants to paint wooden picture frames or Beckett is trying his best to scoot after the cat, that the insanely enormous pile of laundry isn’t as important as the paint-covered little girl and drooling baby boy demanding my attention.

A miniature assistant

2010-09-24T10:29:00.000-07:00

I feel like Violet is finally starting to pull her own weight around here. It’s been nearly three years in coming—well, I suppose you can’t count that first year since she technically couldn’t walk yet. But still.

She loves to do chores. I mean, LOVES to do them. If I give her broom and tell her to sweep up the crumbs from under the table, she gets so excited you would think a pony lives under there.

She’s also getting quite good at fetching things for me. About ninety-eight times out of a hundred she will actually bring me what I’ve asked for instead of a random dirty sock or toilet paper roll like she used to.

And the kid is just plain funny sometimes. Like yesterday she came running to get me so I could see some commercial that came on for this princess Easy Bake oven thing. She was practically jumping up and down she was so excited. “I want that! I want that for my birthday!” Then the very next commercial was for some Old English cleaning product. “Oh, and Mama, you can get that for your birthday!” See? Funny.

One of the things she’s most good at is entertaining Beckett. Oftentimes I will catch her sitting next to him on the floor reading a book or singing to him. This works out in my favor in many ways—I don’t have to entertain either of them, she will probably let me know if he catches on fire or the cat tries to eat him, and then there are all those warm fuzzies from watching the two of them giggle together.

She is also about ninety percent of the way to being able to dress herself. She does all right now with skirts, dresses, even some shirts. But those darn pants just confuse the heck out of her. Each leg has to go into a different hole? And wearing them backwards will squish my booty into a pancake? What is this monstrosity? So she usually just opts to go without.

Also, her toddler superpower of pointing out every single thing in the entire universe means I am always informed whenever anything whatsoever happens that is of interest (or not). It’s kind of like having a little spy. A little spy who gets easily outraged, like when the cat is sitting in the wrong spot on the front porch.

She acts as our personal trainer, forcing anyone with a free hand to twirl and dance with her across the house. When she really wants to get our blood pumping, she runs the opposite direction from the car then laughs maniacally as we chase after--all in an effort to keep our heart rates up in the fat burning zone, I'm sure.

Overall, I’m pretty pleased with her contribution. Now if we could just find a way to funnel all that negative tantrum energy into something positive, like doing laundry, maybe I could finally find time to catch up on Grey’s Anatomy.

One for the girls

2010-08-31T21:26:00.000-07:00

I’ve been trying to find time to sit down and write about our recent trip back to Ohio and Michigan for a week now. But since Beckett has decided that sleeping is so last month, I’ve been operating at the thankful-to-have-combed-my-hair-this-morning level—which doesn’t leave much time for leisurely writing, or when it does, the writer finds herself asleep on her keyboard with a space bar imprint in her forehead.

He’s teething/growing/hitting a developmental milestone/pissing us off. I almost feel guilty even complaining because up until now he was a champion sleeper. But then that monster inside of me that feeds off the sleep deprivation comes to the surface and I find myself yelling at Violet over silly little things, or just yelling at no one in particular, which is even more frightening.

And then I remember why it is that God designed babies to be so darn cute. Or at least programmed their parents to believe that they are. Because if it weren’t for that, this kid would be headed to baby boarding school by now. Especially after his marathon screaming episode on our flight back to LAX. I’m still not sure I’m ready to laugh about that yet. And I’m certain the other passengers on the plane are not ready either. Especially those around us who were muttering about parachutes and emergency exits about an hour into the scream-a-thon.

But back to our trip. We had a fun yet quick visit with family in Ohio then left Violet for the weekend to catch up with college friends in Detroit. It was another fun yet quick visit, but we managed to find time for girl and boy activities (aka, pedicures and car shows).

It’s always hard to say goodbye to those sorts of friends. The ones that have known you forever and still love you even though they know you can be a real jerk sometimes (especially when certain people blow by certain Dairy Queens on road trips). Only some of us could make our reunion this year, what with all the babies and family commitments and lack of funds. We sort of always knew this time would come, when something else would take precedence over our special little group. And of course we realized that real life would take place and we would grow up. We are all married now, most with kids and/or careers, and are all busy making shiny new memories in those lives.

But I still find myself smiling when I see a group of college girls grabbing Chinese food or when I catch a rerun of Friends or hear a Jewel song. Because while it was only four years of our lives, college was transformative for most of us. And the fact that we were all there for each other during that time when we were trying to figure out just what the crap we were supposed to do with our lives – well, that kind of friendship is worth enduring hours of screaming babies on airplanes for.

A real potty mouth

2010-08-12T15:24:00.000-07:00

So I’m pretty sure I broke my toe over the weekend. Either that or severely sprained it. Because that kind of pain can only result in a broken bone or another child coming forth, and that last one ain’t happening again any time soon, lemme tell ya.

I was just being clumsy on my marathon cleaning spree and must have misjudged the size of the bathroom door frame as I sprinted on to the next task, because suddenly there was this blinding stab of WTF shooting up my leg. At first, I thought I had probably just left the whole toe in the bathroom, the pain was so intense. It was that kind of pain where you have to hit something and yell. I chose the wall. My fist was not so appreciative.

As I was limping around muttering and whining, Violet came to inspect my injury. She immediately deduced I needed a Band-Aid and even went so far as to offer me a big Dora one–even she could tell it really hurt.

At first I couldn’t even touch it, which led me to call everyone I knew who had broken a toe to ask what I should do. But everyone just ominously replied that there was nothing the doctor could do for it anyway, so it was a waste of time to even go get it checked out.

And it has started feeling better, which makes me think it was probably just a sprain. Either that or the nerves are now so deadened from the injury that it’s just going to continue turning darker and darker colors until it completely falls off. Either way, I seem to be on the mend.

Unfortunately, my little hit-the-wall-and-shout episode did not go unnoticed by the natives. Now, sporadically throughout the day, I will hear a loud thump from the other room, followed by a sweet little voice yelling a rather choice word.

Over and over again.

Thump. Yell.

Thump. Yell.

Then off she goes, back to playing princess or making Play-Doh cookies.

It’s something Adam and I both have been working on lately—this watching what we say. Because we now have this little spy in our midst, secretly memorizing every stray syllable, eagerly awaiting any mention of frozen treats, pony rides, princesses, or embarrassing curse words.

I know every kid does it, and I’m sure she’ll get over it eventually (I hope). But this combined with her loudly talking about her pee-pee and poops and precisely where they come from and when they are coming—well, I’m afraid to even leave the house with her anymore.

Mental stimulation

2010-08-10T14:02:00.000-07:00

From the time I found out I was pregnant with Violet, I’ve been getting weekly updates from Babycenter.com. At first it would compare her in-utero size with some sort of obscure produce. Then after she was born the emails started talking about her development—what she should be doing at different ages. Of course, she never matched up with what it said which inevitably led to numerous Google searches like, “Is my baby destined to work at Taco Bell for her whole life if she can’t sit up by six months.”

I watched her development like a hawk, comparing every little change to every other baby I knew. I read books on baby sign language, sat with her in front of Baby Einstein DVDs, read to her daily, and this was all before she even had teeth. We went for daily walks where I would point out the clouds, the trees, dogs, everything.

Then I had Beckett.

It’s not that I don’t care about his development—because I do care. I want him to succeed in whatever he chooses to do in his life; I want him to be happy and fulfilled. It would also be nice if he was able to pay for his dad’s and my retirement villa on Bora Bora.

But the Babycenter emails? Now they sort of just crack me up. Today’s big question was: How can I stimulate my baby’s mind?

Concerns over stimulating minds have now turned into trying to stop all the pre-lunch screaming before I pull my hair out. Peaceful afternoons watching clouds and petting dogs have turned into helping Violet pee behind a tree at the playground (I’m guessing this will be a lot easier to do with a boy) while trying to keep the other curious toddlers from poking and prodding Beckett.

So then I start feeling a little guilty. What if all that one-on-one time spent with Violet really did make a difference? And she’s going to be a well-adjusted adult who wins a Nobel Peace Prize while Beckett grows up never learning proper grammar and ends up selling watches out of the trunk of his car or something.

But then I see the two of them together—Violet reading to a chubby, smiling baby without my even asking her to. Beckett watching her, mesmerized, as she dances and twirls around the room. Violet coming to find me whenever Beckett makes the slightest fuss. Beckett belly laughing at his sister’s attempt to walk like a monkey across the back of the couch.

And I think that maybe the stimulation they are giving each other’s minds is worth more than any silly educational toy I could buy. That growing up having each other will challenge, motivate, and fulfill them in such a way that they will hopefully someday realize just how lucky each of them is. And then just maybe thank their devoted, loving parents with an all-expense-paid trip to Europe.

Rant

2010-08-04T22:13:00.000-07:00

Today was one of Those Days. You know the kind. Where you question everything you’re doing with your life, wonder why exactly you decided to wear a black shirt when you have a baby that spits up every five seconds, and lose everything that isn’t staple-gunned to your body. Well, maybe you don’t have days like that, but I do. And they seem to be growing in both abundance and ability to make me need a cocktail.

The day started out fine. No, actually, that’s a lie. It started out with an attempt at a family sit-down breakfast at our favorite diner before Violet had to be dropped off at school. But thanks to the waitress wearing concrete blocks as shoes and aforementioned vomit-king baby, it was not exactly a relaxing breakfast.

And here’s where I now get somewhat confused. Because there wasn’t this One Big Event that made the day spontaneously combust. It was more a slow fizzling out that ended with me holding the spit-up geyser, Violet locked in her room watching Caillou, as I Google Latitude’d (it could be a verb) the father of the children I was five seconds away from selling to gypsies.
(To make matters even worse, I actually used the phrase, “Do that again and I’m selling you to the gypsies.” Seriously.)

So then my knight in shining armor appears and is unceremoniously handed the baby, after which I am out the door with a “dinner’s on the stove” tossed over my shoulder.

A loooong walk later, I’m finally feeling like myself again. Although I need to remember to put on more comfortable shoes before nearly having a nervous breakdown next time. Flip flops don’t really cut it for stamping out my inner turmoil.

When asked how life with two kids was since having her newborn, a friend recently told that it wasn’t so bad. She had been imagining basically the worst scenario possible but when it came down to reality, it just wasn’t that bad in comparison.

So maybe that’s my problem. Maybe I was imagining tranquil moments of both kids sitting on my lap while I read “Good Night Moon” or something. When in reality, one kid screams whenever I’m not holding him and spits up all over me when I do. And the other is learning the art of pushing all my buttons, smiling sweetly as she colors on the walls.

It’s such a strange, complicated web of emotions to be caught up in. Because I love them fiercely. I turn into this savage, mother lion whenever one of them is threatened. I would gladly walk in front of a bus to save them any pain. And yet giving up my life for them seems an easier matter than giving up my identity.

But is that what motherhood really is? Sacrificing yourself for the sake of the kids? Maybe I did expect too much—assuming I’d still get some time for myself without having to give up the precious few hours of sleep I’m allotted. I know I didn’t realize my brain would be turned to mush and barely able to keep up with adult conversation.

But then I have to keep reminding myself this is not forever. This phase that we’re in with the no sleep and the tantrums and the dirty diapers—it will end some day. And then I probably will look back and wish for another whiff of sweet baby hair or night time cuddles or playing princess all afternoon.

So I’m trying to soak up all the good moments and just let the bad ones roll off me. It seems that I have some kind of innate instinct to do just that. After all, if mothers couldn’t get over the spit-up soaked shirts, none of us would probably be around anyway.

Saturday outing

2010-08-03T10:43:00.001-07:00

On Saturday I made my escape for a little bit of quality me time. Namely, a pedicure and a trip to the grocery store. I know, slow down all the crazy, right?

After getting comfortable (i.e., nearly falling asleep in less than two seconds) in the chair while my feet soaked happily in the bubbling water below, the nail tech guy plopped down in front of me and grabbed a foot to begin his work.

"Oh my goodness, girl, did you paint these yourself?" he asked, horror evident on his face.

"Um...yes?"

"Well, I can tell, girl." He gave me a small, pity-filled smile.

"Well, I'm a mom and I have two kids and it's hard for me to get away..." out poured the excuses while I secretly wondered why I cared to make excuses, but still, I felt I needed to explain, "And my daughter likes having her toes painted now, so we did them together the other day..."

"Oh my God! Your daughter painted your toes?" He exclaimed, horror morphing into an "isn't-that-cute" expression.

So I sat back and let him jump to his own completely untrue conclusions, smiling sweetly at him.

"How old is she?" he asked.

"Two and a half."

"Seriously? She's good! She should come get a job here!"

Then we laughed together, the nail technician and I, bonding over an imagined picture of rainbows of nail polish being flung in all directions.

I felt a little guilty. But it wasn't a total lie. Violet did help--of course, her help consisted of painting her own knee caps with bright pink polka dots of nail polish before attempting the same on me.

But regardless, I was able to then sit back in my massage chair and dig into the latest celebrity gossip while my nail polish monstrosity was transformed into something a little less offensive to nail technicians.

And then there was one

2010-07-30T15:03:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was kind of an awful day as far as days go around here. We had to have our little kitty Clover put to sleep. It wasn’t a huge shock as she’s sort of been our problem child in regard to health issues. If cats really do have nine lives, she used up all of hers and them some. But it was still upsetting to suddenly find her in pain, not able to move her hind legs. By the time we made it to the vet, she was basically in heart failure with some major blood clots. So it was time. Like I told Adam, I know it was the right decision to make—I certainly wouldn’t have wanted her to suffer any longer—but it was still a tough decision. Choosing to snuff out a sweet little life like that—it’s a rather large burden.

And so mine and Adam’s discussion went last night, turning a bit philosophical toward the end of our bottle of wine. It wasn’t just sadness over the loss of a cat—although we certainly will miss her; she was very sweet and Violet was really starting to play with her a lot.

Of course Clover was as loved as a cat with her issues could have been. She was one of those sneaky, always-hiding, not-really-there cats that mainly exist as a pair of green eyes peering out from under a bed. When we had people over and we said that yes, we had two cats, they would kind of look at us strangely because while Paco is rather large, he is most definitely just one cat. Clover was always hiding. But when she did decide to grace us with her presence it was a purring, sweet one. She loved having her tummy rubbed. She didn’t, however, love being slung over Violet’s shoulder like a fur-covered baby doll.

So without being too melodramatic, I think what struck us the most about saying goodbye to Clover was just how quickly things can change. Adam and I had had her since a couple months into our marriage. I was working at a vet clinic and someone dropped of a kitten that had been found on the engine of a truck. She looked a lot like a cat I had had in high school, so I brought her home, much to Adam’s well-concealed glee.

She went with us from Colorado to Seattle and then to L.A. And I think L.A. was a fitting place for her to make her departure. Where else would we have been able to say our goodbyes in a spa-like pet acupuncture room, surrounded by sandalwood candles, Asian music, and the perfect feng shui? I’m sure it’s exactly what Clover would have wanted.

The dentist

2010-07-26T21:57:00.000-07:00

This morning I experienced something that further convinced me of what I’ve been suspecting for a while now: I am officially a grownup. I had a cavity filled.

It’s not that I felt like an adolescent before today or anything. I mean, I do have two kids. Although, I would argue that having kids doesn’t necessarily make a person an adult either—I mean, look at the Spears sisters.

I guess I felt like I was in this limbo land somewhere between 16 and 40. My perception of grown-ups, based on when I wasn’t one, was basically a combination between June Cleaver and my sixth grade math teacher. (By the way, Mrs. Walker? I actually don’t ever need to use any form of algebra in my day to day life. Just FYI. So stop lying to all the twelve-year-olds, ok?)

But now I feel like I’ve officially crossed into some new land. I drink coffee that I brewed myself. I recycle. I watch the news (or read it online anyway). And…I have a filling.

Ugh. Just typing that makes me feel all this shame. Like I let somebody down. I'm not sure who, exactly, but I just know that someone--most likely one of my parents--is out there shaking his head at me in utter disappointment. But at least I’m already married. Who knows what kinds of crazy single people I would attract now, otherwise.

This completely insane view of dental hygiene probably comes from my A+ rating on oral health up until now. I never had a cavity—never even had to go to the dentist for anything except a teeth cleaning, apart from having teeth pulled in order to wear braces. But that really wasn’t my fault. I didn’t ask for those extra teeth. So my visits to the dentist as a child were always bright, happy experiences. Like a field trip. I left with shiny, new toothbrushes and a pack of Bubble-Yum.

And then I go and have two kids and they suck all of the calcium right out of my body. You’re welcome, Violet and Beckett—hope you appreciate your rock-solid bone structures.

So all of yesterday I knew this morning was coming but I was trying to ignore it. Then we went to bed and I might have casually said something to Adam about being a teensy bit scared of getting a filling. And he tapped into that sensitive, nurturing man I married and said, “Yeah, it’s freaking scary. You should see the size of the needle they use.”

Needle? No one told me there would be a needle.

“Well, how do you think they numb your mouth so they can use that buzzing-sander-drill thing on it?”

What? We’ve gone from a needle to something that sounds like a Tim "The Tool Man" Taylor invention?

Needless to say, I was slightly anxious about my appointment today. But alas, the car started just fine, there was no random blackout in Playa Vista, and unfortunately my cavity did not experience a 700 Club miracle and heal itself.

I now have a filling. And it really wasn’t that bad. At one point, I think they tried to distract me by putting on that cute penguin movie. But unfortunately it was the part where all the abandoned chicks die in the subzero temperatures. So that was kind of a downer.

But other than that and the fact that I had to make another appointment to get another small cavity filled in a couple weeks (Seriously? Are they breeding in there?), it was a fairly smooth procedure. Even if it means I’m now old and boring.

Afternoon drive

2010-07-21T21:23:00.000-07:00

Tonight we decided to go for a drive. Beckett was yelling his little head off just for fun and nothing would calm him down. So throw him in the car -- that fixes everything, right? Not exactly. We got exactly three and a half feet from our driveway and Violet started asking for something that sounded a whole lot like "floobies". As I didn't know what floobies were, I handed her a bag of pretzels. But obviously, pretzels are not floobies, so this was unacceptable. Her whining grew louder and louder and finally turned into a shrill whine so impressive that it actually tuned out her now nearly hysterical brother. So there we were, driving down the street, both kids shrieking at full decibel.

Then we hit the traffic. The light we were stuck at stayed red for at least forty-five minutes, during which the kids continued to wail and Violet started kicking my seat in frustration that I had no floobies.

And then something inside me snapped--probably the solitary little thread that was leftover after my sanity slowly unraveled throughout the past two and a half years. But I started yelling at the top of my lungs. Nothing coherent--no, that would have made too much sense. I just started yelling. I think it sounded something like, "Blllaaaahhhhhggggaaaagaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhgggg!" It only lasted for less than a traffic light, but you know what? It made me feel so much better. The world realigned itself with my sleep-deprived brain and I could see colors again. And you know what else? It totally made them shut up. I'm not sure if it was shock, outrage, or the knowledge that their mom just totally kicked their little tantrums' butts, but it doesn't really matter. Beckett fell asleep; Violet ate the freaking pretzels; and we drove in quiet happiness. For about a half a mile.

Vegas getaway

2010-06-01T13:38:00.000-07:00

So I thought writing about our recent car trip to Vegas with both kids would be a great way to break back into the blogosphere.

Some friends of ours offered to let us use their house and pool while they were away and it sounded like a great opportunity for some cheap relaxation fairly close by. The house is this huge loft-like setup with concrete floors and exposed ceilings. Perfect for partying with your hip friends. Not quite as ideal for the toddler crowd. But surprisingly, Violet was very compliant and avoided the open concrete staircase. Her eyes were on more important things, like the pool in the backyard.

She had a blast playing in the water, and after it finally warmed up to above the 23 degrees it was when we first got there, the pool was great for everyone. (Well, everyone except Beckett who chilled under the sunshade the whole time. But he didn’t mind—probably because I put a little pink umbrella in his bottle to make him feel a part of the party.)

So then we got up all bright and early yesterday to play in the pool again before driving back to L.A. Apparently, everyone else in the entire world had the same idea. Because what should have been a five-hour drive became an eight-hour drive. In a Prius. With two kids.

Overall, the kids actually did okay. Especially since we weren’t really prepared for much more than six hours in the car. And Adam and I managed to use our nice words with each other the whole time. Which is important, because once the kids sense any kind of weakness, they pounce. They’re like jackals.

At one point, I had to squish myself between the two car seats in order to feed Beckett his bottle. This was after stopping to switch seats on the side of an exit ramp, surrounded by 102-degree air and probably coyotes, who I’m sure were out there waiting for someone to just give up on the traffic and wander out into the desert to end it all. Then at another point, I had to use my breast pump while we were driving, a first for me, and I’m sure also a first for the old guy in the pickup beside us who got a rather shocking show for a few miles.

But Violet kept us fairly entertained with her random chatter from the backseat. Like:
“Daddy, what’s your name?”
“Adam.”
“Oh…That’s cool!”

And:
“I want to see fish.”
“Fish don’t live in the desert, Violet.”
“But I want to see fish.”
“Fish only live in water. There is no water here. There is nothing here, in fact, except traffic. And traffic is all that there will ever be until the end of time.”
“How 'bout bubbles? Fish can live in bubbles.”
“Ok, sure. Let’s look for fish living in bubbles in the middle of the desert.”
“Ok, Mama, good idea!”

So it begins

2010-01-14T12:03:00.000-08:00

We haven’t been getting a whole lot of sleep around here lately. Violet’s been sick with a cold and a cough that wakes her up in the middle of the night, leading her to call out for us. “Mama, where are you?” “Daddy, where are you?” It’s kind of hard to ignore that kind of cuteness.

Then there’s the little person growing inside of me that enjoys seeing how far he can extend his foot into my rib cage at, oh, three in the morning. And then, of course, there’s all the peeing. Right when I find the position that keeps his elbows out of my diaphragm while allowing me to breathe and aligning my back and legs just right so it doesn’t feel like a cheese grater is being run down my spine –this is when the call of the potty begins.

THEN there’s the husband who has apparently developed sleeping Tourette's in the recent months and likes to randomly yell out words and phrases, like “Watch out, honey!” just when I’ve drifted off.

Needless to say, I’ve been a little bleary eyed lately. And if you tell me it’s just good practice for when the baby comes and sleep becomes a sweet, sweet memory, like Jell-O Pudding Pops, then I promise I am going to call you every five minutes starting at 2am tonight until you apologize for making me even more crazy.

So a couple days ago Violet and I were on our way home from the pediatrician after finding out Violet’s cough is actually a mild case of croup which there really isn’t a treatment for except steaming up the bathroom and some homeopathic sugar pills that Violet likes to call “yummy balls.”

We were at a stoplight when all of a sudden I heard this gravelly, menacing voice call out, “I can see you.” I glanced at Violet in the rearview mirror to reassure myself that there was not a misplaced hillbilly in the backseat, nor that Violet had somehow learned to talk like one. But she looked just as curious as I did, except where she looked curious, I looked completely freaked out. A couple seconds later, I heard it again: “Yes, I see you!”

Ohhh … kayyy …

The van sitting next to me at the light had tinted windows, so my first thought was that some creep was calling to me from there. Then I heard this really weird static sound. Kind of like a walkie-talkie? Like maybe the walkie-talkie right next to me in the middle console that had somehow gotten turned on and just happened to tune into whatever redneck radio wave I was passing through at the moment.

Whew. I’m pretty sure I would have been freaked out even if I wasn’t sleep deprived, but my sluggish brain waves certainly didn’t help matters much. Thank goodness Violet still naps during the day because Mama needs one too.

It all started with a balloon

2009-11-16T17:28:00.000-08:00

On Sunday, we decided to walk over to our favorite diner-slash-bowling-alley (oh yeah) for some breakfast. Violet had some kind of a fit about wearing shoes, but she finally got over it and managed to stay somewhat under control while she hopped up and down in the booth, smashing eggs and French toast into her mouth. (We’ve long since given up trying to contain her in a high chair and she’s too squirmy to stay in a booster seat without accidentally sliding under the table. And the underneath of the table in a diner-slash-bowling-alley is no place you want to be.)

After breakfast, Adam took Violet to the bowling alley to play with the arcade toys while I paid. She always wants to go do this and she always screams at the top of her lungs when she has to leave. I’m not sure why one of us hasn’t learned our lesson yet.

So she’s screaming and we’re walking home and we pass the grocery and realize we need milk. So we go get some milk and a few hundred other things we didn’t realize we needed and we get to the checkout and that’s when it hits. Violet needs a banana. Like needs a banana. Like if she doesn’t get a banana right now, the universe will probably implode around us. Or at the very least, children will have no more laughter in their hearts.

But I haven’t paid yet and I’m sort of against eating food that we haven’t purchased, especially in the form of a fruit that has to be weighed in order to purchase it. So I try to distract her and nothing works and she’s screaming louder and the lady in front of us is writing a check – a check! In this day and age, seriously? – and she has to fill it all out just so and dot her i’s and cross her t’s and I’m about to abandon the whole thing and just walk out when a very nice grocery store employee hands Violet a balloon.

Now normally, a balloon would work and everything would go back to being all happiness and unicorns. But the balloon Violet was handed was clear. (Sidebar: what’s the point of even creating a clear balloon? I mean, really? Wouldn’t that be like eating clear cotton candy or making a crayon called “see-through”? I’m just saying.) And Violet was not having it. That balloon needed to be pink or orange or any other color her little brain could fire out, but that clear one was just a big fat disappointment.

But of course her father would not let her trade in the balloon. “We should be thankful to have a balloon at all.” Yeah, he's that dad. So he tied it to her wrist and off we went. About halfway home, Violet came around on the clear balloon monstrosity and decided to love it. So all was well.

Until later that night when I got up in the middle of the night and saw a disembodied head floating through our living room. That darn balloon, which had lost some of its helium by now, was just the right height to be a person (or an alien, as I first ascertained) in our living room. So I’m pretty much totally freaking out until the balloon floats close enough for me to see what it is and then I just feel stupid. But I’m still a little shaken up, so I decide to go check on Violet just in case she picked up on any of the silent screams going through my head with ESP or something. She’s fast asleep, except her head is lying crookedly on a board book she likes to keep in bed with her, so I try to move it gently out of the way. Only her head smacks down on the mattress and she wakes up with a start.

I race out of her room, praying she’ll go back to sleep, but no such luck. We let her lie in bed with us for a little while but she likes to kick and punch in her sleep, so that didn’t last too long. Luckily, her dad is a genius at getting her to go back to sleep in her crib, so we did manage to get a few hours of uninterrupted sleep. Although a lot of that sleep was spent dreaming about space aliens with balloons for heads.

Meat eaters

2009-11-10T14:07:00.000-08:00

Violet’s always been a pretty good eater. She does go through phases, though, where she insists on eating one particular thing, leading me to buy half of Los Angeles’ supply of that item, only to have her decide the next day that she’s over it. Which is why we have a freezer smashed full of edamame right now and why I was eating nothing but string cheese for a couple weeks there. You would think I would have learned by now. But whenever the item she’s obsessed with happens to be on sale, I assume it’s a sign from the heavens that I need to buy stock in something like parmesan Goldfish crackers.

But usually it’s snacks like Goldfish or fruits or veggies that she becomes enamored with. So I was a little surprised yesterday when she woke up from her nap and immediately asked for “meat”. Not a sandwich or a wrap or even a meat and cheese roll-up, no this girl wanted straight meat. So it was kind of lucky that we happened to be making shredded pork sandwiches for Monday Night Football. She scarfed down two bowls full before deciding that she was done.

Then today before it even hit noon, she was asking for meat again. Strange how a girl can go from wanting to eat nothing but baby carrots and Tinkerbell fruit snacks to basically asking for a rib eye.

I also find it interesting that this proclivity for meat has coincided with Adam’s watching of Food, Inc., leading to his general belief that McDonald’s is basically everything that’s wrong with Western Civilization. Not that I disagree; I mean, I haven’t seen the movie, mainly because I’m pregnant and I scare easy, but he probably is onto something there. We could definitely benefit from fewer chicken McNuggets and French fries (But not the iced coffee … I am not giving up cheap, delicious caffeine, no way … or the dollar ice cream sundaes, I mean, come on.)

So now my search begins for grass-fed, free range, lullaby-sung to, happy meat. Because if the girl wants meat in this household, she’s getting meat, gosh darn it.

Cleaning frenzy

2009-11-05T09:55:00.000-08:00

Have you ever accidentally moved a piece of furniture a few inches then wished that you hadn’t because you suddenly discovered where all the dust from the past three centuries has disappeared to? I mean, we’ve lived here less than six months—how can we have accumulated so much gook already? It just doesn’t seem scientifically possible.

It all started when Adam and I temporarily forgot we had a two-year-old and bought an entertainment center that basically advertises itself in bright Crayola markers to all passing toddlers. It’s low to the ground and it has no doors or covers to hide the electronics. So Violet’s all, “Oh buttons! Have to push, need to push, buttons, buttons, buttons!” And we’re all, “Push those one more time and we’ll … well, there’s not a lot we can do because we were the idiots that bought it in the first place.”

So our lovely, comfortable ottoman that works so nicely with our once-comfortable couch is now positioned cleverly in front of the entertainment center so grubby little fingers can’t reach it. The only problem is that the vacuum can’t reach it either, and today in a moment of sheer pregnancy-cleaning-nesting-craziness, I moved the ottoman. Bleck. Oh, there’s that mound of cat hair that we misplaced about five hundred years ago. Along with every single Cheerio that has ever been dropped in a five block radius of our house. There seriously must be a black hole under there that only sucks in fuzzy, gross blobs. Next time, sign me up for the money-sucking black hole—even if it is covered with fuzzy, gross blobs, money is always better than Cheerios.

P.S. Oh, hi blog. There you are. Brb. Promise.

The cat

2009-08-18T20:49:00.000-07:00

Our cat Paco disappeared last week. I let him out of the house in the morning and he didn’t come back for his usual mid-day check in, and he didn’t come back at bedtime. The next day, nothing. And the next, and the next. Until almost a week had gone by and Violet was just starting to stop calling for “Patoe!” every time we went outside.

Then yesterday I was on the phone with my mom and lo and behold, I heard a cat meowing outside. I opened the door and there was Paco, looking at me like, “It’s about time, dude.” He came loping indoors and ate the entire kitchen before falling asleep on the couch for the rest of the day.

He’s lost a lot of weight but seems fine otherwise. I know cats disappear all the time and hey, I grew up in the country, so I really know that cats disappear all the time. But Paco had never been gone for more than a couple hours before, and to suddenly leap to a week-long roaming adventure was kind of a big deal for him.

So of course we’re inventing all these stories about where he was, because, you know, cats can’t talk, which is a good thing because if they did, we wouldn’t have anything to discuss over dinner. The top of the list of possibilities is that he got stuck in someone’s garage who then went out of town and returned recently to find a meowing cat locked up inside. But who knows, really. We’re just glad he’s home. He’s the only pet that actually tolerates Violet and she is head over heels about him for that. Just tonight, she gave him a big hug before body slamming him into the floor. Welcome home, Patoe.

Moving notes

2009-07-15T09:32:00.000-07:00

I’m not exactly sure how or where, but someplace along the way from our old apartment to our new house, we lost a box. It’s not such a big deal—at least I don’t think there was anything too important in there. And really, the way that the move went, we were lucky not to forget Violet somewhere in the pile of U-haul boxes. But still, it kind of stinks. I’m pretty sure it was a box full of nothing but vegetable oil and honey. Because that’s all we seem to be missing. Oh, and those cute, tiny hangars for baby clothes. Kind of a random mix of things, but toward the end there anything that wasn’t nailed down was being thrown into any open container that would sit still long enough.

We also misplaced our spare car key somehow in the move. Not such a big deal, except when Adam left for work two days in a row with my car keys in his pocket, right there beside his own car keys in his other pocket. So there Violet and I were, stranded without car keys and with some serious playdates to get to somehow. Of course I tore the house apart looking for the extra key to no avail. I remembered putting it somewhere “safe” where I could easily remember where it was. That didn’t work out so well.

But then yesterday as I was digging through my purse looking for a pen, lo and behold, there was that darn car key, just hanging out at the bottom of my bag. It had been there the whole time, hidden by some old gum wrappers and grocery lists. So now that key is in a special little bowl in clear view on top of the shelf in the kitchen. And we’ll probably never need it again.

Chatterbox

2009-05-18T16:19:00.000-07:00

Lately Violet has been trying so darn hard to talk. She has mastered a few words that she realizes can get her things, words like please (“pees”) and thank you (“tay too”). She sort of picked those up on her own somehow, which is great because it makes it look like we really care about manners in our family.

Another favorite is “airplane” (“ah-pane”), which she screams excitedly whenever she spots one in the sky. Incidentally, we live about three miles from LAX, so that happens quite often. It’s a lot of fun.

She also has this thing for birds. Even before she really knew what to call them, she loved pointing at them and watching them swoop through the sky. Last weekend we took her to the LA Zoo to go to their aviary. She had a blast running around scaring up the red-throated hookbeaks and the yellow-tailed tifty-wickets. (I really doubt those are actual birds. I’m just too lazy to Wikipedia “exotic birds” right now.)

So the other day Violet and I were playing at the park and she had wandered a little ways off to play with some other kids. So I was just sitting on the bench, enjoying a little sunshine when I heard a child start yelling, “Beer! Beer!” Why, I wondered to myself, is there a toddler yelling about beer? Surely his parent will stop him. Because that’s a little disturbing.

But the kid just kept yelling. Right as a huge flock of birds passed overhead. And then I realized. That was my kid yelling, “Beer!” Only she wasn’t yelling, “Beer!” She was yelling, “Bird!”

Quite an unfortunate mispronunciation, let me tell you. I’m working on over-emphasizing the “d”, but she’s not really getting it and I just end up sounding a little crazy. Birrddduh! Birrrrduh!

A world of laughter, a world of tears

2009-04-20T18:07:00.001-07:00

While on the "It's a Small World" ride...

Adam: Instead of the death penalty, they really should just make people live in here. Problem solved.

Hello again

2009-04-15T21:15:00.001-07:00

Apartment hunting su-hucks. Not that I don’t love pouring over craigslist until I go all squinty eyed, or viewing potential apartments with a squirmy toddler. But I think the most depressing thing is just that the home that I want to live in doesn’t exist. At least not in this immediate area. Or, if it does, it costs $12,500 a month. Seriously saw a house that cost that much. Um, how about we come live in one wing, and you won’t even know that we’re there. We can be quiet, really.

Because what I really want is space. A living area big enough for Violet to run more than two feet without running into the furniture. Or the wall. And I want a yard. Oh, what I would give for a yard. Not a big one. Just a teeny little plot of grass with space for a flower or two. And fresh air directly accessible by our back door. I get all giddy and twitchy just thinking about it.

We spent last weekend in San Diego, sharing a vacation rental house with some friends. We hid some eggs in the back yard for Violet to find, and she ran yelling around that patch of grass like a Pilgrim who just discovered the New World. And we realized that that was probably the first time she had ever run around in a back yard. Maybe that’s no big thing to people who grow up in cities, but to someone who practically lived in her back yard as a kid, it was kind of shocking to realize.

Sure, we spend most days at the park. Or the beach (which, hey, can't complain there). And we are ever so appreciative of all the beautiful playgrounds and public spaces that we have easy access to. But you know, sometimes a girl just wants to sit out on the porch on a sunny day while her little girl frolics through the green grass. Or runs around screaming in it, as the case may be.

Pots and pans

2009-03-16T10:37:00.000-07:00

Lately Violet has been “helping” me in the kitchen when I make dinner at night. This usually consists of her pulling everything she can carry out of the cupboards. Which is actually kind of convenient. Much easier to grab the frying pan by my ankle than sift through the baking dishes and what-have-you like I normally do.

Last week, I was engrossed in whatever I had bubbling on the stove and was sort of ignoring her whining as she sat on the floor beside me. When I finally tuned in, though, I saw her sitting in the pasta pot, almost folded in half, with her feet up by her ears. And she was stuck.

So, of course, I hurriedly grabbed the camera.

Later that night I was telling Adam about this and he shot me one of his “are you really sure you’re her mother?” looks.

“You mean, you took pictures of our daughter while she was in obvious distress, stuck in the pot?”

“Well, yeah. I wouldn't have been able to take pictures of her in the pot if I had taken her out of the pot first, would I?"

And, to prove I did actually help her get out of the pot:

What they don't teach in school

2009-03-11T16:23:00.000-07:00

This morning I discovered my previously soft and kitten-fur-like makeup brush had somehow morphed into a weapon with alligator bristles. So this afternoon I found myself at Sephora, casually looking over the various makeup brushes that go with my particular makeup. I was a little torn because, well, they’re freakin’ expensive and I didn’t really want to blow that much money on something that could, in a few months’ time, attempt to scratch out my eyes again.

But then a very tall and helpful salesgirl came to my aid. She explained that actually my makeup brush is intended to last at least two years. Two years! “That’s incredible,” I said. “Yes,” she said, “That’s why they’re called long-lasting brushes.”

Aha. She then proceeded to explain to me how to clean my makeup brush. (Don’t let water get inside the bristles, whatever you do; this might cause a chain reaction that would plunge the world into nuclear holocaust. Ok, maybe she didn’t say it that way, but she was pretty dramatic.)

I “oohed” and “uh-huhed” at all the right places, grabbed my handy brush cleaner and was about to head to the register. That’s when the salesgirl asked me to repeat everything she had just told me. “Now when you go to clean your brush, what’s the first thing you do?”

As I hadn’t really expected a pop quiz, I’ll admit, I zoned out on a lot of the brush cleaning steps. But, I figured, I know where the water is, I have my brush cleaner, and I know: DON’T GET ANY WATER IN THE BRISTLES. So I figured I could wing it just a little. You know, since the future of the free world doesn’t hinge on my clean makeup brushes.

But the salesgirl apparently wasn’t pleased with my blank stare. She sighed, rolled her eyes a little bit, and said, “Let me go get another brush so I can show you again.”

“No, no, that’s ok,” I said quickly, a little shocked and kind of impressed by her snobbery, “I’ll figure it out.”

Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I was in the Condescending Salesgirls R Us store. I mean, maybe if you have a Ph.D. in astrophysics or are a Subway Sandwich Artist, then I’ll admit you definitely know more about your chosen field than I do. But washing a freakin’ makeup brush, for crying out loud? Maybe I didn’t exactly major in cosmetics, but I’m sure I can figure something out.

Needless to say, I wasn’t exactly upset by Violet’s toddler shrieks at the cash register. Kind of vindicated me a little bit, actually. Maybe I’ll teach her how to wash a makeup brush as a reward.

Phone call

2009-02-19T11:44:00.001-08:00

My mom and I watch a lot of the same TV shows. Not really on purpose or anything; it just happened. It kind of threw me at first to hear her talking about Der and Mer and would they just get together or break up already, but now I’m sort of used to it. It’s a nice break from hearing about the latest snowfall forecast anyway.

But the problem is that my mom rarely misses one of her shows. She still lives back in that era before DVR and Tivo, and really, how did we survive without those? But I, who have seen the light, have my shows set to record every week. So if something better comes along, like, say, a conversation with my husband, I don’t have to break out into a cold sweat while glancing meaningfully at the TV in the middle of our talk.

So a lot of times I have to stop my mom from accidentally spilling the beans about whatever happened on last night’s Desperate Housewives. But it doesn’t always work. Like today, for instance.

Mom: Did you see Lost last night?
Me: No, I’m waiting to watch it with Adam. So don’t say anything about it.
Mom: Oh, ok, I won’t. But…
Me: No!
Mom: It was really good. You know, really good?
Me: Ok, cool.
Mom: I won’t say anything, but you’re really going to like it.
Me: Ok.
Mom: I mean, this thing happens with Kate and Jack and everyone but…
Me: Mom!
Mom: Ok, sorry.
Me: So Violet did the cutest thing…
Mom: They go back to the island and open and bed and breakfast and then they get married and have lots of babies!
Me: Mom!

Ok, so that’s probably not really what happened on Lost, and I doubt that’s what she told me, but I don’t know for sure because I purposefully stopped listening when I heard “Kate and Jack”. I guess I just need to find some different TV shows. Like cable TV shows. There’s no way my mom is going to accidentally give away what happens on the next Girls Next Door.

Use your words

2009-02-09T11:23:00.000-08:00

Lately, Violet has been perfecting the art of a temper tantrum. It no longer just involves a pitiful whine when she wants something she can’t have; now there are octaves and decibels and real tears involved. It’s enough to get the dog howling and the cats scurrying away in fear.

When we’re at home, we just ignore her for the most part. Unless she wants something that’s not too much trouble, like some juice or possibly some food. Then we’ll go ahead and give in. But usually the screaming has to do with something completely ridiculous. Like she wants to play with the laptop or maybe the dog looked at her funny. Or (gasp!) one of the Noah’s Ark zebras somehow got into the Little People SUV which, clearly, will cause the universe to implode.

Thinking our child was on the path to becoming one of “those” kids, I decided I should do some research on how to calm her down in the middle of such a tantrum. Because, for some reason, the people in line at Old Navy can’t seem to block out her panicked shrieks as well as I can. Seriously people, just hum that Beyonce song a while and you’ll forget all about the screaming.

But what I found during my online research wasn’t too helpful. The biggest tip for stopping a temper tantrum? Avoiding a temper tantrum. Yeah, um, ok. Apparently, even the experts are at a loss as to how to calm down a maniacal toddler. They suggest planning outings when you know your child will be happy and calm. To make sure you give your toddler snacks before she becomes instantly near starvation and the only thing that will pull her back from the brink of death is a handful of Goldfish.

Oh, ok. So it’s simple, really. To avoid my daughter screaming in public, all I have to do is develop clairvoyance. If only I had known this months ago, I could have avoided all those angry stares at the grocery store.

Luckily she is easy to distract. I mean, just hand the kid a straw and she’s happily clucking to herself in seconds. Another surefire is to stick out my tongue and say “bleh” over and over again. Sure, I look like an idiot but she can’t scream very well when she’s laughing hysterically.

Reminder

2009-01-27T09:25:00.001-08:00

The world is mud-luscious and puddle-wonderful.

-e.e. cummings

Where I wish that "snot" had a less disgusting synonym

2009-01-26T11:22:00.000-08:00

It seems that we’re all finally getting close to the end of this death cold that has been hovering around since about, oh, 2003. Or at least it feels like it’s been here that long.

Violet came down with it first, with the snot and the sniffling and the whining and crying. It was kind of miserable. Not to mention disgusting. I don’t think the couch will ever be the same. That much snot just does not wipe off.

Anyway…we sort of didn’t really believe that she felt that bad and forced a family outing the Saturday after she got sick. It was beautiful outside and I wanted to go to this park where it was reported you could see gray whales during their annual migration. The reports were correct; we saw about three or four of them. Violet wasn’t too impressed with the far-off whales, although she did enjoy a fair share of shuffling through the dirt and trying to eat fallen poisonous nuts from trees. She may have also eaten an ant.

Then the next day, Adam and I woke up thinking our heads were going to explode any second. And of course, immediately felt awful that we had dragged our poor little girl outside the day before if she had felt as terrible as we did. But I still have to think that a dose of sunshine and ant eating had to have helped, because she really did stop whining so much after that.

Her parents, however, whined more than a whole gaggle of one-year-olds. We were pretty miserable and pathetic there for a while. Adam, especially. Apparently he’s missing that gene that propels a mother to keep going despite feeling like she’s going to die from an exploding head. By Sunday night, all three of us were camped out on the couch, watching recorded TV episodes and drinking O.J.

And this thing is still hanging around. Sure, it’s better – the fear of exploding heads has dissipated – but still, aren’t colds supposed to leave eventually? And Violet. I mean, the kid’s nose cannot stop running. It’s disgusting. Everywhere we go, I’m constantly wiping off nose-drippage from her face, which she doesn’t exactly enjoy, and trying to reassure other parents that no, my child is not contagious (according to her doctor’s office) and hoping that someday soon the snot will run out.

Earning her keep

2009-01-13T09:02:00.000-08:00

I hate spiders. Hate them. With every fiber of my being, I despise them. I know they say that like 1% of all spiders are actually poisonous, but I think that’s really a lie. I think they just say that so people won’t go around on a spider killing spree. Because apparently they’re some important part of the food chain or whatever. They eat little bugs that would otherwise cause the bubonic plague, blah, blah blah. Personally, I’d choose the plague over eight hairy legs landing on my head out of the blue.

Adam doesn’t really get my fear of spiders. I’ve tried explaining it to him, but there seems to be something missing in my explanation…oh yeah, logic. But just like people’s fears of heights or small spaces or Triscuits, my fear of spiders doesn’t have to be logical to be real.

The other night, I spotted one of these minions of the devil hanging out above our couch. Or I should say, it spotted me. I knew something was watching me, and as soon as I turned around, there it was. Like the brave and brilliant man he is, Adam jumped up to go squarsh it for me. (Squashing is not enough for those little bastards. You have to squarsh them.) And he returned a few moments later, triumphant. Or so I thought.

A little bit later in the evening, he nonchalantly asked if it was sometimes okay to lie to each other. “Like when you ask me if a dress makes you look fat and I tell you no. That’s good right?”

Ok, shove that mountain of issues into the corner for now. But I did agree. Yes, if I ask if I look fat, the automatic response needs to be “No.” No thought, no assessment, no scrutiny of my back section. Just “No.”

So then he nodded, looking satisfied and not saying another word. Of course, I couldn’t let sleeping dogs lie and I had to practically force out of him what his little lie was. Sheepishly, he glanced back at the wall where the spider had been. “I didn’t actually kill the spider.”

What? Apparently, the little demon was still loose in the apartment somewhere. But now it was mad. And I was sure it would show up in our bed later that night looking for revenge.

So I was quite pleased this morning to find one of my cats in the middle of the kitchen, its paw laying protectively over something with eight hairy legs. The cat looked at me triumphantly before moving aside to let me see its quarry: the demon spider, dead as a doornail.

That cat, she is getting a WHOLE can of tuna for dinner.

Bark. Growl.

2009-01-06T08:44:00.000-08:00

I saw “Marley and Me” over the weekend and it melted something in my already mushy little heart. I ran through my own montage of happy scenes with our little poodle and realized she’s sort of gotten the short end of the stick since Violet was born. We tried to prepare her for that happening, but I’m not sure she really believed it.

When we lived in Colorado, we used to pile the dog and ourselves in our little white hatchback and trek across the mountains to visit the family. The dog always got very excited about this. Maybe she knew she would be seeing her doggy mom and dad soon or maybe she just really liked sticking her head out the window. Either way, it made sense then. Those trips were always a lot of fun (well, except for the blizzards and the black ice and the careening semis).

But now, it’s been, what, four years since we’ve driven to visit family? Now we do all our traveling by plane and while we used to take Duray with us on those flights, she’s now been relegated to the boarding kennel. This is mainly because just the thought of flying with a toddler and a dog practically sends me into a fit of hyperventilation, but also because we mainly fly Southwest now and they don’t allow pets.

So all that to say that I’m not exactly sure why the dog gets so darn excited to get in the car anymore. She bounds and leaps and yips with excitement until I lift her up into the Jeep. And she runs around in circles on the front seat, panting in anticipation. It seems, though, that eventually the truth seems to sink in. We start down the road and I can practically see the synapses firing in her little brain. So excited, so excited, we’re going on a ride, on a ride. Where did we go last time we went for a ride? There were people there…they had brightly colored smocks on…there was some kind of sharp pointy thing they stuck in my…Oh crap! Forget it. Abort! Abort!

I do sort of feel bad for her. She’s gone from having a place on our Christmas cards to being that pile of fluff on the couch that could either be a scruffy dog or a really ratty sweater. She is a good dog, though, despite the occasional freak out when someone dares to walk by our front door. She’s cuddly and sweet. She keeps my feet warm at night. She breaks up cat fights. She follows Violet around, keeping an eye on her.

Maybe someday we’ll go back to doing road trips that she’s included on. But in the meantime, she’s biding her time as the cat and baby referee, when she’s not fast asleep on the furniture anyway. But someone has to make sure the couch doesn’t just up and fly away.

Happiness

2008-12-30T10:08:00.000-08:00

Something surprised me today as I was on my way home from Santa Monica, Violet babbling sweetly in the backseat. I found myself actually happy about living in L.A. Maybe it had to do with my being able to wear flip-flops at the end of December … or comfortably wear flip-flops at the end of December, I should say. I suppose you could wear flip-flops in, say, Minnesota right now, although your toes would probably turn into little blue icicles. Or big blue icicles if you have big toes. I don’t judge.

It could have also been the way the morning sun was shining just right off the ocean, making it look like one of those old surfer movies. Or possibly how the mountains stood out just right against the cerulean (thank you, thesaurus.com) sky. I’m not sure. But whatever it was that struck me, I found myself thinking happy L.A. thoughts. And this forced those little gnarly-faced “I hate L.A.” goblins with their “L.A. makes us poor!” and “I hate traffic!” and “I hate movie stars!” (except you, Robert Pattinson) that usually reside in my head to be silent for a little while.

I mean, I enjoy sunshine as much as anyone, but 364 days in a row of golden rays tends to make me a little crazy. Three hundred and sixty-four of anything that you love could do that, really. Like hearing your favorite Christmas song 364 times in a row. Or eating 364 of your favorite candy bars. That’s how I feel about the sunshine. I need a few clouds here and there to break up the monotony.

But then the little happy L.A. fairies started to pop up, flitting around with their “warm weather in December” and “Pinkberry is from heaven” and I found myself being all thankful that we are poor and full of pollution fumes and sitting in traffic … but only minutes from the ocean.

Wait for it...

2008-12-19T16:10:00.001-08:00

Ok, so maybe everybody and their brother is creating these multi-media, interactive, epileptic-seizure-inciting lights displays. But that's no reason to be all Scrooge-y and not watch every single one of them, is it?

Plus, I think Mariah Carey adds a nice touch.

Seven things...

2008-12-15T17:48:00.000-08:00

...from my head.

1. Whenever I put on my sunglasses , I get that song about wearing sunglasses at night stuck in my head. Only I don’t know any of the words except, “we wear our sunglasses at night” so those words keep repeating over and over to the entire tune of the song. It’s irritating.

2. You know how sometimes you’re stopped at a light and one of your tires is resting on a manhole cover and then when you start driving again maybe it’s a little slippery out and that tire doesn’t get any traction on the manhole cover and you feel like you’re going to careen off the road even though you’re going exactly 1.5 miles per hour? I hate that.

3. There are these two dogs that live down the hall from us. They’re both Corgis and they are both a little vicious. One of them attacked our dog when Adam was taking her for a walk. This had led us to name them the pack of Killer Corgis.

4. Outwardly, I pretend that I really do believe TV is evil and not appropriate for toddlers to watch. But really, I kind of think it’s awesome that Violet dances to iTunes commercials, and if she’s really as much of a genius as her dad and I think she is, she has a few spare brain cells laying around anyway.

5. I tried doing something fun and colorful with our personalized Christmas cards this year (we’re those people) but in reality, they turned out sort of looking like a scary, psychedelic sweater from the 80s. Sorry, mailing list. Luckily, with this exciting recession going on, we're only able to send them to about two people.

6. It rained a lot here today.

7. Whenever I start talking about weather, I know I'm running out of ideas and really I should just log off of Facebook and close down the computer and try finding something useful to do.

Do you hear what I hear...

2008-12-11T11:41:00.000-08:00

They’ve been testing the fire alarms in our apartment complex for a couple days now. I’m just barely recovering from my brain being shaken around in my head every two minutes yesterday. Because the alarms don’t just politely ask you to leave in an orderly fashion, they scream at you for taking so long and shriek at you to get the hell out right now! Which, I suppose is a good thing if you want to, say, not die in a fire. But if, instead, you’re calmly trying to do a little work while the baby is sleeping, such shrieking is not too welcome.

It seems, however, that whatever frequency the shrieking is on doesn’t seem to hit Violet’s little ears. She slept through pretty much the whole thing. I say pretty much because when the people came knocking on our door to ask if the alarms were working in our unit, she woke up. Sure, an alarm going off at 5000 decibels? She’s still in dreamland. But if a mouse so much as thinks about sneezing anywhere in a four-mile radius, she’s awake in a second.

If it were me and I were in charge of scheduling fire alarm testing for a huge apartment complex, I would try to map things out a bit. Tell the people in this building to expect to be annoyed from around 9 am to 12 pm. Then the people in the next building from 12 pm to 3 pm…and so on. But the people in charge around here like to have a little more fun than that. They set aside two whole nine-hour days to randomly push buttons and run around, listening to alarms. Really helps to get your heart rate going that way.

But, you know, we survived. There are worse things in the world to endure. And we discovered our alarms do work and that also we don’t have to worry about not hearing them. Even if we host a marching band convention in our living room. Because that could happen.

The reason for the season

2008-12-08T09:04:00.000-08:00

We were sort of wishy-washy about whether we were going to put up Christmas decorations this year. We didn’t have a lot of room; Violet would most likely try to eat or break anything that we put up; we weren’t going to be home for Christmas; yada yada.

But somehow the Spirit of Christmas present spoke to us and we found ourselves surrounded by dusty boxes and broken furniture at our storage unit, looking for the holiday décor.

We opted against a regular tree – those prickly branches and glass ornaments would be way too tempting for Violet to resist. So we ended up with our little two-foot tree I used to put up in college. Throw in a wooden Santa, some singing Hallmark characters, a few snowmen, and you’ve got yourself a fairly festive looking place.

Oh, but that was not enough for us, no sir. Because there were two brand new boxes of Christmas lights just begging to show off their colorful aura. And we could not disappoint. My first thought was to string them along the balcony. But, of course, we don’t have an outlet out there.

So then Adam decided to make a Christmas star in the window. Sounds easy enough. But that window, it’s about one hundred and fifty feet high and we don’t own a ladder. So there I was, balanced precariously on the window sill, light string in hand with Adam pushing me up by my rear and handing me “Tape! I need more tape! Now!” There was a moment there where my life really did flash before my eyes.

But we did it, and it’s beautiful in all its multicolor Christmas-y goodness. And, I suppose, that means that the Christmas season really is here. Because what says “Happy birthday, Jesus” more than someone risking their life to hang up some Christmas lights?

Time, oh how it flies

2008-12-01T21:00:00.000-08:00

Over the weekend, we celebrated Violet’s first birthday a little early. My mom was in town, towing a whole suitcase devoted to presents for Violet and maybe a few items of clothing to actually wear while she was in town.

So we made cupcakes, lit a candle, sang the song, and watched as Violet enjoyed her first (as far as I know) taste of chocolate. It was good times for all.

Her actual birthday isn’t for a couple more weeks so I really should hold off on all the tears and reflecting and the sad, sweet pageant of life talk. But it still hit me all of a sudden as I watched her chew on the wrapping paper and toss the freshly unwrapped toy aside. My little girl is a whole year old.

A lot of people ask, mainly in passing, how I like being a mom. How my life has changed. Was it what I expected. And I have a hard time condensing my answer to something appropriate for a Facebook wall. I think they cut you off well before you reach 50,000 characters anyway.
But the other day I stumbled across a line on one of my favorite blogs that kind of sums up what being a mom feels like to me:

I love it. I love her. I love you. I love your children. I love your shoes. I love everybody and everything amen.

New address

2008-11-29T15:56:00.000-08:00

Just because I thought it would be fun, I decided to create a fo' real address for this blog. It can now be reached through: www.sunnysidegal.com

The original address through Blogger will continue to forward here as well.

Happy Thanksgiving weekend!

Quote

2008-11-29T15:53:00.000-08:00

We all live with the objective of being happy; our lives are all different and yet the same.

-Anne Frank

First words

2008-11-24T10:43:00.000-08:00

On Saturday I high-tailed it over to the nearby mall to meet up with a friend for a girls’ night. We caught a matinee showing of Twilight then did some shopping at the Rack. All in all, a very fun and much needed evening.

When I got home, things were as I had expected them to be. Adam and Violet were sprawled out in the living room watching TV. They were both so excited to see me that they managed to raise their arms and wave.

Adam then got my hopes up by saying: “I taught Violet something new tonight.”

We’ve been trying for weeks now to get Violet to blow kisses. We do it over and over until our mouths are practically stuck in the fishy lips position, but nothing has gotten through to her little baby brain. She just grins and blows a raspberry right back at us. So when Adam said he had taught Violet something new, my first thought was that he had finally figured out how to get her to blow a kiss.

But this thought was soon squashed when Adam continued: “Violet, say ‘poop’.”

And my sweet, cherubic baby girl opened her tiny little mouth and said: “Poop!”

Of course, Adam was laughing so hard he could hardly see straight, at the same time looking as proud as if Violet had just gotten her first 4.0.

Naturally Violet enjoys any attention, so seeing us laugh and look horrified, respectively, only egged her on. She now pretty much says poop whenever Adam suggests it. I’m torn because on one hand, she’s obviously growing and learning and discovering how to repeat these words she’s hearing. But on the other hand…she’s saying poop. It’s a strange kind of pride, but you take what you can get, I suppose.

Because it's naptime

2008-11-21T10:36:00.001-08:00

Ok, I’ll admit it. I’m a Twilight fan. I got hooked on the books when Adam’s sister was staying with us last summer. I could say it was just an attempt to bond with my much cooler, much blonder, much younger sister-in-law, but that would be a lie. Those darn books just touched that sappy teenage romantic still living inside me somewhere. Plus we were living in Washington while I read them, which doesn't really mean anything except that I often read them while it was raining.

So I’m a little more than excited to go see the movie this weekend. Thankfully, I have another non-teenage friend to go see it with and will thus not have to drag Adam along. She and I can pretend to scoff at the teenage girls in their “Team Edward” t-shirts while secretly thinking one of those t-shirts might make nice pajamas.

In my emailing back and forth about the books and the movie, I’ve discovered a few websites for the Twilight fan (Google is so perceptive like that). They’re not all fan sites, per se; they just have to do with the books and their location and such. So I thought I’d list them here, if for no other reason than it’s something fun and mindless to do instead of cleaning the kitchen.

Here we go:

Hikes near Forks and the surrounding areas, some based on locations in the books.

Forks, Washington site lauding Stephenie Meyer. (Seems to be down today. Apparently Forks can't handle a gazillion teenage girls clicking their mouses like maniacs.)

Retelling of Twilight by Edward. Interesting because it’s a rough draft, but at the same time not interesting because it is the exact same story, just from a different point of view. Although there are a few juicy tidbits here and there.

And that’s it. For now I just have to bide my time and try not to read any reviews or accidentally stumble upon the blogs of all those crazy teens who have already seen the movie.

Puppy dog tales

2008-11-20T11:11:00.000-08:00

Our dog has a kind of love-hate relationship going on with the baby. We keep trying to remind her that this kid will soon be her favorite person in the world once she learns how to sneak her food and let her lick the leftover ice cream off her face. But dogs can be hard-headed. Duray just doesn’t care.

But she certainly is defensive of Violet, especially when we’re around strangers. If we’re out for a walk and someone simply acts like they’re going to look at Violet, Duray has a barking fit. Of course, she also barks at the ice cube maker, so maybe this isn’t so novel.

Violet is oblivious to her dislike. In fact, she thinks it’s pretty darn funny. When Violet sneaks up on Duray as she’s laying comfortably on the couch and proceeds to smack her on the head, Duray growls in return (and really, who can blame her?), which sends Violet into fits of giggling. This can last for hours. Well, at least for minutes anyway.

I suppose I could intervene and save Duray these times of agony and embarrassment. But being a stay-at-home mom in a still unfamiliar city, I don’t find a lot of entertainment opportunities every day. So I’ll take whatever I can get.

Coffee drinker

2008-11-17T09:11:00.000-08:00

Friday morning I allowed myself a little bit of TV binge time – catching up on Grey’s Anatomy episodes while Violet napped. For some reason, the god of TV smiled down on me and I was able to make it through all my tivo’d shows. After watching the most recent Grey’s and, consequently, seeing the previews for next week (what’s WITH the dead guy coming back thing, really?) I was so hopped up on hot doctor drama that I rushed to my computer to email my friend Angie all about it. Me and Angie, we are the experts on TV hot doctor drama.

In my haste, I pushed my laptop across the table and knocked over my lukewarm cup of coffee that had been sitting there since 6 am (thank you, Violet). It went everywhere. The table turned into a lake which formed a waterfall that spilled over the side and landed in the lagoon that was Violet’s high chair. It soaked into all her high chair straps and then continued its cascade onto the already stained beyond belief carpet.

So I grabbed a rag and cleaned it up as best as I could, all the while my mind running over the implications of Denny’s return on Alex and Izzie’s relationship. So I must have missed a few spots.

Because a few moments later, Violet waddled up to her high chair and began SUCKING ON THE STRAPS. She even managed to find the little crevices in the side of the chair that still contained coffee and licked those clean. Instead of being appalled, however, I found myself impressed with her moxie. Maybe when she grows up she’ll be one of those people who can survive in the wilderness just by sucking sap out of tree limbs or something. Plus, this is just another way we can bond someday – enjoying a steaming mug half full of Coffeemate while we talk about how dumb boys really are.

Lately Violet has been rejecting the bottle and formula. She’s a little shy of a year old so I don’t really want to start whole milk yet. But I guess all I need to do, really, is add a shot of coffee to the formula. Unless maybe she prefers sucking it off the furniture.

Someday the tooth fairy will make it all worth it

2008-11-14T10:02:00.000-08:00

It’s teething time again. This go-around, Violet is getting five at once. So she’s pretty darn miserable. I try to keep her medicated with infant Motrin as much as possible, but what she really needs is some infant morphine. And I love her, but I’m not willing to risk a jaunt through a back alley in south-central L.A. to get it for her. So we make due.

Mainly I try to distract her. We keep busy with playdates and playgroups and errand running and more Elmo and Baby Einstein than any normal human should have to endure.

But the kid’s clearly in pain. Five teeth at once. That’s just plain mean. Although, maybe it’s like ripping off the band-aid. Get it all done in one fell swoop and then we’re in the clear for a while. I’m just not sure it’s worth it. Last night, she cried and wailed for about an hour before we could get her settled down. She’s been very clingy, although that part I don’t mind as much. Especially since she has learned how to wrap her little arms around me and lay her head on my shoulder, while patting my back and making the same comforting noises I make to her. Ok, maybe the teething is worth it. But I’d rather just have sweet cuddle girl without her screaming banshee child counterpart. Is that too much to ask?

Morning person

2008-11-13T11:19:00.000-08:00

Yesterday morning I stumbled out of bed to discover that the apartment had tilted on its side. And the only thing I could do about it was cling helplessly to the wall. After a few moments, I realized that maybe it wasn’t the apartment that was cockeyed. It was me. I figured it just had something to do with waking up at 5:30 (thank you, Violet) so I stumbled out of our bedroom and through the living room, slamming back and forth into walls like a drunken sorority girl. I finally made it to Violet’s bedroom and somehow managed to get her out of her crib and changed before collapsing in the rocking chair.

I realized then that something was probably wrong with me. The room was spinning away and I held on to Violet for dear life. She, of course, thought it was hilarious that mommy was losing her mind and she giggled and babbled with happiness.

At this point, I wasn’t really sure if I’d ever be able to get out of that rocking chair. We keep the baby monitor perched on Violet’s shelves, which happen to be right next to the rocker. So I tried calling for Adam’s help, hoping he’d hear me through the static. Violet thought this was pretty funny too and mimicked my pathetic cries.

But Adam never heard me, despite my yelling "mayday, mayday." So I hooked Violet under one arm and used the other to grab onto anything sturdy as I made my way out to the living room. Violet was happy as a clam to just sit on the floor and play (seriously, where did her morning person syndrome come from?) while I lay on the coach moaning until Adam got up and discovered his probably crazy wife.

A little bit later, I realized this must be what vertigo feels like. So immediately my thoughts went to inoperable brain tumor. And I’ve seen enough Grey’s Anatomy to know that when something’s inoperable, there’s not a whole lot you can do about it. So that ruled out going to the doctor. Better to live in denial.

Later on in the day, I managed to look up vertigo on WebMD. Apparently it’s pretty common. And can be brought on by stress, too much drinking, a head trauma, or just inner ear issues. Oh yeah, and the less common but equally as real metastasized brain tumor.

But as it turns out, pretty much any symptom you type into WebMD can be caused by a brain tumor. Fainting spells, fevers, Charlie horses, you name it. Which kind of makes me think that WebMD is just trying to scare everyone. And that maybe if you get so scared that your hands start shaking uncontrollably, you’ll accidentally click on one of their ads, therefore contributing to their internet domination.

Today I woke up feeling fine, especially since I didn’t have to get up until 7 which is a much pleasanter time of day to wake up. The sun was shining, the birds were singing and nothing was spinning or tilting wildly out of control.

Car trouble

2008-11-11T09:29:00.000-08:00

Last week, our car died unexpectedly. Well, I guess you never really expect these things, because if you did, then they probably wouldn’t happen in the first place.

The car wouldn’t start when Adam was trying to leave to pick up his mom at the airport. It’s always something like that it seems. The last time something similar happened, it was right when I was supposed to go pick up my best friend from the airport. Only that time, the car was broken into and the rear window was smashed in. But still, it makes me wonder if there’s some kind of car gremlin that’s just waiting for the worst possible time to strike. Or maybe it’s really because I don’t send out all those email forwards. You know, “send this email to thirty-eight friends or we’ll mismatch all your socks.” I hate those things.

So the next day, I called the Auto Club. (It’s really AAA, but in Cali it's called the Auto Club, which just makes it sound that much more exclusive.) And everything worked out. I mean, they had to tow the car to the mechanic to whom we paid Violet’s college savings in order to get it in working order. Apparently, there was something wrong with a part called the crank sensor. Yeah, that's a real thing. But it was fixed in a day and everyone was so nice as they were taking all of our money. And they even came to pick us up in their little courtesy shuttle.

I was sort of expecting to have some kind of sordid tale of auto mechanics and other tomfoolery to write about. But instead, everything worked out. Which leaves me with kind of a short story that has a happy ending. Where’s the fun in that?

Date night

2008-11-10T10:51:00.000-08:00

On Friday Adam and I went to see a TV show taping – a very L.A. thing to do. And also, apparently, a very time consuming thing to do. They do tell you ahead of time to plan on spending a good portion of your life inside the studio, but I just thought they were being precautionary. But they were not. They were being absolutely truthful.

We watched a taping of “’Til Death”, that show with the brother from Everybody Loves Raymond. It was very funny and they even fed us free pizza.

Then five hours later, we went out for sushi to finish up our date night. We absolutely revel in our alone time these days, since the majority of the rest of our time together is spent singing pat-a-cake and discussing dirty diapers. But then, inevitably, our talk over the miso soup returned to how much to spend on first birthday parties and whether eating Cheerios off the floor is really that bad. But at least we were out talking about eating food off the floor.

Snack Catchers ... oh my

2008-11-06T12:59:00.000-08:00

You know those ideas that other people have that are so simple yet so completely brilliant you mentally kick yourself for not coming up with them and thereby becoming a multi-millionaire? Well, motherhood has opened my eyes to all kinds of these inventions. Bowls that suction to pretty much anything; placemats that stick to the table; clips that turn nearly anything into a bib; Baby Einstein videos (Really Disney? Cute but not exactly breakthroughs in cinematography.).

And now…the Snack Catcher. There are a few different variations on this, but we have the Munchkin version and it’s just completely brilliant. It’s built kind of like a sippy cup with handles. But the top is this soft plastic with starfish-shaped arms that come together and keep the Cheerios or whatever from falling out. But the kids can also squeeze their little hands in there and grab a handful of snacks and pull them out – without spilling! It’s ingenious.

We just got ours today, after we had seen all the kids in playgroup using them. And Violet was all, Mom all the kids in playgroup have them. So I bought some. The package said they were for ages 12 months and up. Violet falls a little short of that mark, so I was a little concerned. I mean, let’s face it, the kid thinks that clapping her hands is sign language for EVERYTHING. She’s not so quick with the dexterity sometimes. But she’ll do pretty much anything for Goldfish crackers, so she had that Snack Catcher figured out in a minute flat.

She did have to work pretty hard to get each piece out, her little face all scrunched up in concentration. But that’s the beauty of this thing. It’s a snack holder AND a toy all at the same time. I really think this thing could keep her happy for hours. Especially if I glue a few Goldfish to the bottom.

It’s empty right now but she’s still playing with it, peering through the purplish plastic probably hoping some little treat will miraculously appear. This is a welcome break from the past few days of teething hell where I basically had an eleven-month-old constantly suctioned to my pant leg. But we seem to be nearing the end of the time of misery, and I’m relieved to find my happy little girl again.

Confession

2008-11-03T21:59:00.000-08:00

The afternoon sun was only a weak slit in the sky this afternoon when I finally dragged Violet and myself out of the house. I had been working all day, cleaning and writing and also some actual real work (read: paid) in there somewhere. So it was time to take a break and get some fresh air. And also, Violet’s whines were reaching an octave that could have made my ears fall off my head. So we headed out, me in a thin long sleeved shirt and Violet in a little sweatshirt (and socks that she managed to keep on for exactly as long as it took for us to go down the elevator). We passed quite a few people on our way that commented on her lack of ear muffs and thermal underwear, but I kindly informed them that we were from “up north” and this weather felt great.

We walked for about two blocks before the chill finally crept in. I have to be honest; I was cold. I was pining for my fleece lined boots and cozy scarf. I pulled Violet’s hood up on her head and kept checking her for signs of hypothermia. After grabbing some coffee and talking with some friends, we headed back towards home. Now the sun was almost completely gone and I wasn’t quite sure if we were going to make it. The wind had kicked up and I wondered for a minute if I had magically been transported to a place where fall really exists.

As soon as I got back home, I checked the outside temperature: 64 degrees. Heaven help me, I’m becoming one of them.

A cold spell

2008-10-28T11:26:00.000-07:00

The weather is finally turning a wee bit cooler here in the land of the baking sun. It’s not so much fall as it is summer trying desperately to act like fall but really it just ends up looking like a poser with all the other seasons laughing at it behind its back.

But I’ll take what I can get, even if the trees don’t turn colors and you could get sunburned at the local pumpkin patch. At least it’s no longer brilliantly hot, which means we don’t melt when we go outside, which is always nice.

So last weekend I decided we would all head to the beach for the afternoon. After all, it was about 70 degrees outside, which meant all the locals were traipsing around in their Uggs and bright scarves wrapped tightly around their shivering bodies and probably weren’t at the beach. So I figured we’d have lots of room to run and play. But what I was really envisioning was our happy little family sitting quietly on a blanket, watching the birds dive and the waves crash. Maybe Violet would dig in the sand a little bit and let it sift through her tiny fingers. We would be peaceful and calm while we reflected on the intricacies of life.

Of course, Violet did not sit quietly. Nor did she let the sand sift softly between her fingers. And I’m pretty sure she did no reflecting whatsoever. As soon as she touched that beach, she was off on her hands and knees, searching out every stinky piece of washed up seaweed and half-smoked cigarette. Adam spent the entire time we were there racing up and down the beach after her, occasionally removing radioactive seashells from her mouth.

He didn’t seem to mind. He’s more of a get up and explore type of person. And Violet was clearly having such a fabulous time it was hard to be frustrated. She scooped sand up and squished it in her little fists, sometimes tasting a handful or two. She watched the waves crash in with profound awe. She stalked sea gulls. She buried her feet in the wet sand.

And I realized that this scene was much better than what I had planned anyway.

Normal

2008-10-24T08:23:00.001-07:00

I’ve never been the most organized person in the world. Growing up, my room very much resembled a bargain bin at a big box store. College wasn’t much different. I tried to keep as tidy as possible for my roommates but I didn’t enjoy doing it.

Now here I am, an adult (when did that happen?), with a child and a husband and pets and a mortgage and electrical appliances to organize and manage. It takes a lot of my brain power. And to be honest, there’s not a whole lot left up there since having a baby made part of my brain go missing and it hasn’t found its way back home yet.

So this is what happened the other day when I tried to leave the house to go "run" some errands.

Get baby dressed. Put baby in Pack N Play so I can get dressed. Go back to get baby out of Pack N Play to discover the baby has pooped all over the place. Rip off baby’s poopy clothes. Wash baby. Redress baby. Realize I’m still not wearing pants. Put on pants. Put baby in stroller. Collect diaper bag and purse. Open the door to leave. Realize I don’t have my cell phone. Go grab cell phone. Discover wallet and keys in baby’s toys on the floor. Finally leave the house to take the dog to the groomer. Go down the verrrry slooowww elevator to the parking garage. Realize the dog is still in the apartment. Go back up to the apartment. Yell at the dog for still being in the apartment. Remind self to apologize later. Take dog and baby and extras back down to the car. Load baby in car seat. Load dog in car. Leave the parking garage. Drive into blindingly bright sun and realize sunglasses are still in the apartment. Decide to squint.

An old man and his pipe

2008-10-23T11:33:00.000-07:00

On our way to the neighborhood park, Violet and I always walk by this retirement home perched at the end of the block. More often than not, there are elderly people milling about their garden full of bright, hanging flowers. Also more often than not, one of these elderly people will strike up a conversation with me, usually about Violet. Sometimes they reminisce about their own children, now grown and gone, or they’ll just chat about the weather or the trailing orchids behind us. I love talking to elderly people, especially those crotchety old men who you know are really just pretending, because as soon as Violet smiles at them, they melt into little puddles.

The other day as we were walking by the retirement home, there was a man outside smoking a pipe. This is such a distinct smell that I didn’t even have to see him to know, but there he was, in that garden, smoking away (and talking on his cell phone at the same time, which was kind of awesome). I immediately slowed down to let the scent of the pipe waft by. The smell was rich and dark and trailed memories through the air.

My grandpa used to smoke a pipe, and now whenever I smell one I always think of him. I was pretty young when he passed away, but I can vividly remember sitting on his lap while he told me stories or recited his favorite poems. And permeating everything around us was always the smell of that pipe.

When he passed away and my grandma decided to sell their beloved brick house in Greenville, Ohio, it fell to my mom and aunts to go through all my grandparents’ possessions and decide what could be sold or what needed to be saved. My grandpa had been an auctioneer, and the cellar of the house was stacked to the ceiling with items he either couldn’t sell or purchased for himself. I remember walking through these skyscraper piles, imagining all kinds of hidden treasures. One treasure that my aunts did find was an old copy of a Marilyn Monroe calendar. Apparently, when my grandpa came home with it, my grandma gave him quite a time for bringing such smut into their house.

Other treasures were old farm posters, little trinkets and toys, and other miscellaneous items I can’t even remember. I have a framed picture of my grandpa sitting atop a tractor, wearing his fedora that I can’t remember him ever being without, and smiling. I instantly thought of this photo when I smelled that pipe the other day, and I very nearly ran up to that man to hug him.

Miss Independence

2008-10-21T10:51:00.000-07:00

Violet's going through somewhat of a stubborn streak right now. I'm hoping it's just a phase, but I'm pretty sure it's just the beginning of what is to come. That it will turn out to be The Phase that Lasted Until Violet Became a Mom and Understood.

The yelling isn't the worst. Although it is embarrassing, it's very kid-like. She can't really talk yet, she only knows a couple signs (and "Mom, I'm pissed" isn't one that I've taught her yet), and the only way to express her frustration is to yell. I get it. I don't judge her, although it does make my head crack open just a little bit every time she does it.

But the worst expression of her new independence, by far, is the little gleam she gets in her eye when she knows she's doing something that will make smoke pour out my ears. Like eating paper. Or leaves. Or a handful of cat hair. Or! When she looks directly at me and then proceeds to throw fistfuls of her lovingly cut up food on to the floor. (Which, by the way, children in Africa don't do because they don't have enough food to throw anywhere. But apparently it's a little too early for the African children logic because that hasn't really gotten through to her yet.)

I know, I know. She's ten months old. How calculating can she really be? My mom says she's just getting a mind of her own. Well, does she really need to think for herself quite yet? Can't we go back to the times when I laid her down somewhere and she stayed there? When she ate what I fed her? When she looked at me with a sweet and innocent expression of love instead of looking at me to judge just how far she can push me before I will need a time out?

I do love that she's becoming a little person. The teeny baby stage was fun with all the cuddling and the (comparatively) relaxing moments. But I'm looking forward to being able to find out what really is going on in that little head, even if it is an evil plot to overthrow her parents.

Words of wisdom

2008-10-20T10:38:00.000-07:00

Something I never really imagined ever having to say:

No, sweetie, we don't lick the bathroom floor.

If I had a horse...

2008-10-16T09:11:00.000-07:00

This is a shot of our sunset last night. I'm normally not a take-a-photo-of-a-sunset kind of person, but last night's was just breathtaking. It began with light shades of pink and yellow then bled into deep purples, reds, and oranges.

I had to lean over the baby gate, across the balcony, and around the corner, with the baby hanging off my leg, to take this picture. So it's a little blurry. The power line adds a nice touch, no?

North Dakota? Really?

2008-10-15T15:25:00.000-07:00

California makes the fifth state that I have lived in so far. Beginning in Ohio then Oklahoma then Colorado then Washington and now, Cali. I always pictured myself more of an East Coast kind of person. But then I discovered that East Coasters are mean. West Coasters are not mean but do have their own faults. Like passive aggressive personalities. And saying “dude” and “no worries” way too much.

It’s interesting to me that each state I’ve lived in has varied so much, from driving habits to food preferences to slang and temperaments. And I haven’t even habituated the more extreme states. (Texas, you know who you are.)

Apparently, I’m not the only one interested in the personalities of states. Here’s a study done by actual professionals at the University of Cambridge lumping states into different categories. Apparently, North Dakota is where it's at. The fun, that is.

Extraversion
People in these sociable states are most likely to enjoy attending club meetings or hanging out in bars.
Top 10: North Dakota, Wisconsin, Washington, D.C., Nebraska, Minnesota, Georgia, South Dakota, Utah, Illinois, Florida
Most extraverted: North Dakota
Least extraverted: Maryland

Agreeableness
Folks in these states are likely to go along, get along — they’re warm, compassionate, cooperative and friendly.
Top 10: North Dakota, Minnesota, Mississippi Utah, Wisconsin, Tennessee, North Carolina, Georgia, Oklahoma, Nebraska
Most agreeable: North Dakota
Least agreeable: Alaska

Conscientiousness
People in these states get the job done. They’re dutiful, responsible and self-disciplined.
Top Ten: New Mexico, North Carolina, Georgia, Utah, Kansas, Oklahoma, Nebraska, Florida, Arizona, Missouri
Most conscientious: New Mexico
Least conscientious: Alaska

Neuroticism
Oh, dear, oh, dear. People in these states are likely to be anxious, stressed and impulsive.
Top Ten: West Virginia, Rhode Island, New York, Mississippi, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Kentucky, Louisiana, Ohio, Arkansas
Most neurotic: West Virginia
Least neurotic: Utah

Openness
Folks in these states are willing to give it a try — they’re curious, intellectual and creative.
Top Ten: Washington, D.C., New York, Oregon, Massachusetts, Washington, California, Vermont, Colorado, Nevada, Maryland
Most open: Washington D.C.
Least open: North Dakota

What's with all the bird prints?

2008-10-14T15:37:00.001-07:00

So I’m on Etsy today, searching for a diaper-bag-slash-tote-slash-purse I can transition to since my current diaper bag is big enough to swallow our apartment whole. I just can’t maneuver through crowds very well without smacking into some poor soul who was just out for an afternoon stroll. And I’m tired of all the dirty looks. And the random assortment of items that end up at the bottom of the bag.

I’ve found some cute choices, and boy do I love a cute bag. But I’m having trouble finding something that has it all. I want something small and compact but big enough for everything, while still being pretty yet something the husband wouldn’t barf on while wearing in public ... on the off-chance that he’s on his way to change a diaper at the mall.

This is tough. One of life’s real challenges.

I'm going to bring this up every time we go shopping for a prom dress

2008-10-13T21:03:00.000-07:00

If I started this blog post in the reverse pyramid style common in many newspapers, it would go something like this:

A woman lost the will to live today after shopping for two hours with a 10-month-old baby girl.

It all started out so innocently, as these things often do. I had a coupon. I had some free time. And Violet began her day in a cheery sort of mood. Sometimes things that come in threes are good omens (see: the Bible). But other times, well, they disguise themselves as good omens only to turn around and bite you in the derriere.

I should have just given up after the first crying fit. But I am so desperately in need of clothes. It’s not even that I need cute, going-out-on-the-town outfits, because, let’s face it, how often does that really happen? Just some everyday t-shirts, jeans, maybe some exercise pants. Preferably all of which don’t have holes and smell like baby vomit.

So I tried to prevail. I handed Vi everything I had in my secret arsenal of Crap that Might Distract the Baby. But she was not impressed. At one point, she actually flung my cell phone across the changing room. Hard. That poor phone has been through so much, it probably needs to be hooked up to an IV about now.

Shopping is stressful for me to being with. I don’t particularly enjoy it. I like grabbing a top and pants, throwing them on, and being done with it. Something about an arm full of shirts and jeans and I just start to feel claustrophobic. Like they’re all going to jump on me at once until I’m suffocated by all the synthetic fabrics.

Then add to that stress the existence of a whiney, crying baby and my head might just explode. What made it even worse, though, was how dang cute she was whenever we ran into another shopper.

“Oh, your son is just adorable!”

“Thanks, she’s a girl.”

“Oh, well, that hair will come in someday. Look at those blue eyes! So cute!”

And Violet would laugh and coo and wave until the shopper was practically swooning. But as soon as they ambled away, it was back to cell phone throwing and yelling. I’m the one that gave birth to you, kid. Save some of the cuteness for me. I’ve earned it.

I managed to make it home with two bags full of a few new items. I was honestly kind of worried about what I would find in the bags, since I sort of reached the end of my rope at one point and just bought everything that was hanging off the stroller so we could get the heck out of there. But I think it turned out okay. Although, from now on, most of my shopping will be done via the beauty of the Internet.

Reading rainbow

2008-10-10T21:06:00.000-07:00

I just started another book by Ann Patchett, Run. (Are you supposed to underline, italicize, or put book titles in quotes? I can never remember. There are too many darn choices. Maybe I'll just do them all at once. Or maybe I'll do nothing at all. Ha. Ha.)

Anyway...a few months ago I read her best seller, Bel Canto. It was incredible. Probably the most memborable book I have ever read. I don't know if I could call it my favorite because I'm pretty new to Miss Ann and her books, and also, I don't know that it's one I could read over and over, but still, just, wow. And that was what we call a run-on sentence. But my point is that you should read it if you haven't.

One of my almost-the-end-of-the-year resolutions is to start reading a lot more. I used to read all of the time, devouring everything until my eyes were glazed over and I couldn't remember which world was reality. But somewhere between having a baby and moving to Los Angeles, I lost my reading spark. But I'm trying to reignite it and books like Bel Canto and, I'm guessing since I haven't finished it yet, Run, are great ways to fan the flames.

Also on the recently read list is The Road by Cormac McArthy. Another wow kind of book that I probably would not sit through again because it is bleak and kind of horrible. But at the same time, it's a beautiful story of what a person will do for his child. I don't know that it would have had such an impact on me if I didn't have a child of my own, but maybe it would have. I can't really remember what it was like not to have a part of my soul living outside my body.

I also did finish the "His Dark Materials" (quotes here? I don't know) series by Pullman. I've been meaning to write a little bit more about it, but I'm having a hard time getting started. Mainly because, well, I liked it. It started out kind of shaky for me and it ended up a little shaky again, but overall, I thought it was kind of brilliant. Apart from, you know, God dying and the Church being the source of all evil. But if you can look past these points and keep them separate from the story, the story itself might just suck you away. Again, probably not a group of books I would read again, nor would I list them anywhere near the Narnia series as far as classics that will stand the test of time, but they were entertaining.

Weekend adventures

2008-10-07T13:40:00.001-07:00

Over the weekend, our little family headed down to San Diego for an air show. We had passes that let us in through what seemed to be the back entrance to the base. As we were driving through, jets and helicopters buzzed overhead and things exploded around us. It was a little terrifying but also thrilling. Then, of course, Adam had to start humming the MASH theme song, and I haven’t really gotten it out of my head since.

Violet did very well overall with all the buzzing and banging and earth-rumbling that went on. They were handing out earplugs and Adam managed to get them to fit in Violet’s ears. This seemed to take the edge off, at least. But still, when one of the Blue Angels or another plane flew over, Violet would duck her head into my chest and cuddle up. She never cried or acted extra scared, but I’m sure it wasn’t exactly Sesame Street for her.

So on Sunday, we decided to forego the air show and headed to the Wild Animal Park instead. It’s set up somewhat like a zoo, but the main attraction is this enormous savanna where the wild animals of Africa pretty much roam free. You can ride a tram through and watch giraffes and antelope run free on the plain. Or find cheetahs resting in the shade. It was incredible.

The really dangerous animals, like the lions and tigers, were kept in separate enclosures, so there was no risk of one taking down a water buffalo or something. There was also a petting zoo with deer and antelope-type animals just wandering around and you could go right up to them and feed them or pet them. We took Violet in and she seemed entertained, although we couldn’t really coax her into petting the animals. We kept telling her they were like her kitties at home, only gigantic and not at all kitties, but she wasn’t really buying it.